


Concertos and Blackmail

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blackmail, Case Fic, Gen, Heist, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Story: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, canon update
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s around about when John’s in a white dinner jacket, shooting out security cameras and running from guards through the skyscraper of a media tycoon-cum-gentleman blackmailer, that he realises he’s probably gone well and truly mad. He couldn’t really care less, though. And hey — he and Sherlock started out sharing a flat; how appropriate if they end up sharing a prison cell. (A BBC <i>Sherlock</i> update of <i>The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            For anyone else, waking to the knowledge of a day off work would be a blessing; to John Watson, the knowledge represents a mildly daunting challenge.

            Sherlock hasn’t had a proper case in two weeks. (According to the detective, the suicide last week was too easy, and according to both of them, a single night’s stakeout to catch a petty thief definitely doesn’t count.) For three days, John’s been able to escape the inevitable depression by being called in to the clinic – but it seems his run of good luck has ended.

            _At least the bastard likes a lie-in,_ he thinks as he descends the stairs, yawning and tugging his track pants more firmly up over his bum. _I should at least have a peaceful breakfast. And lunch. And who knows, maybe even dinner. Depends on my luck._

            Forgoing the living room, John heads straight for the kitchen and the promise of tea, only to be confronted with the sight of a milk carton sitting, warm and half-full, on the counter. Still clinging to the last vestiges of hope that have managed to survive in their impossible flat, he checks the fridge; but, inevitably, Sherlock hasn’t performed a miracle and gone out to buy more. John lets the door swing shut and grimaces, thumping his head against the cool metal.

            “Sherlock, I swear to God...” he mutters under his breath.

            “Is someone there?”

            John nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice, calling from the living room. He tugs open one of the dividing doors and suddenly becomes very conscious of the fact that he’s wearing nothing more than track pants and a vest, and can practically feel how terrible his bed head is.

            The voice belongs to a woman, about Sherlock’s age, in an impeccable skirt suit, her light-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She’s sitting on the sofa, legs crossed in a manner that is at once amicable and professional, one simple-but-stylish black stiletto tapping impatiently in the air.

            John frowns. “How’d you get in here?” he asks, blaming his bemusement on the lack of tea in his system.

            “Your landlady let me in,” the woman answers. “She said she’d wake Mr Holmes.”

            “Ah,” John replies.

            The woman raises one carefully-pencilled eyebrow. “You’re very laconic,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye. John shakes himself.

            “Right, sorry,” he mumbles, “just got up. Um – how long have you been sitting there?”

            “About twenty minutes,” she answers without looking at her watch.

            “Right. And, er – Sherlock hasn’t been out, has he?”

            The woman smiles to one side. “No.”

            John feels the urge to beat his head against the fridge again. “Hold on a second,” he sighs, “I’ll go wake him.”

            “Your landlady didn’t have much luck,” she calls after him, as if in warning.

            Sherlock’s bedroom lies at the end of the hall from the kitchen, a short trek which John thinks should be named something ominous, preferably containing the word ‘doom’. It requires a significant amount of effort to open the door, considering the mound of books that has recently materialised behind it, and John counts it as a point in his favour that he makes it the entire two metres to the bed without tripping over any of the many and varied tomes. He finds Sherlock lying on his front with a pillow clutched over his head, his long limbs sprawled across the mattress like pieces of a scarecrow ready for assembly.

            “Sherlock, get up, you’ve got a client,” John orders, nudging at Sherlock’s hip. The detective groans and curls up on his side in response, his back to John. “Seriously Sherlock, get the fuck up, she’s been waiting for twenty minutes.”

            The only answer is a half-hearted flailing of one leg which might have resembled a vengeful kick if there had been any actual strength behind it. Rolling his eyes, John rips the pillow from Sherlock’s hand and flicks his ear. _“Up.”_

            “Go away,” Sherlock grumbles, tugging the blanket up and over his head. “I’m sleeping.”

            “No,” says John, thumping him over the head with the pillow, “you’re getting dressed and you’re going out to talk to the woman who’s been sitting on our sofa for twenty minutes.”

            Sherlock snatches his pillow back and wraps it across his ears. _“I’m sleeping,”_ he repeats, muffled by the pillow.

            “Oh, no you’re not,” John snaps, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Get up!” When there’s no response, he half-kneels on the bed and shoves against Sherlock’s back, rolling him toward the edge of the mattress. Sherlock shouts, flailing, and fails to grip John’s arm as he falls, tumbling to the floor in a twisted mess of limbs and sheets.

            John stands back, hands resting on his hips. With a grunt and a groan, Sherlock extracts himself from the coiled blanket and drags himself back onto the mattress, burying himself once more in the pillows.

            “Oh for God’s sake –”

            “Fine!” Sherlock shouts, kicking off the covers and rolling to his feet like a very tall boy unwilling to go to school. “I’ll talk to this idiotic woman, tell her how boring her so-called _case_ is, and go back to sleep.”

            John says nothing, deciding to quit while he’s ahead and leaving Sherlock to tug a heavy red dressing grown over his pyjamas. He pops his head into the living room to tell the woman that they’ll be there in a moment before continuing upstairs to dress properly. He returns at the same time that Sherlock appears in suit trousers and a pressed shirt, smoothing down his hair with one hand and buckling his belt with the other.

            “Tea,” he says imperiously, sweeping through the kitchen.

            “Can’t.” John follows him into the living room and drops into his armchair. “You let the milk spoil.”

            The woman on the sofa smiles as they enter. “Having a bit of a tiff, are we?” she jokes. John’s about to protest when Sherlock speaks.

            “What do you want?” he demands, folding himself into the chair opposite John.

            The woman sobers, taken aback. “I know I can trust _you,_ Mr Holmes, but who’s this?” she says, nodding in John’s direction.

            “This is my associate, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock replies in a monotone.

            The woman’s immaculate eyebrow rises again. “No offence to your friend –”

            “And colleague,” Sherlock interrupts.

            With a furtive glance at John, the woman continues. “This is a very delicate matter, Mr Holmes,” she says, brimming with restrained diplomacy. “The fewer people who know about it, the better.”

            “I promise, you won’t find a more trustworthy man than John,” says Sherlock, signalling the end of the dispute. John stares at him, unregarded, stunned by Sherlock’s nonchalant high opinion of him and not a little offended that he’s never said as much to his face. The woman glances at him again, but remains silent. “Good,” Sherlock continues. “Now, if you could tell me who you are and what you want, we can get started.”

            The woman takes a fortifying breath. “My name is Eva Brackwell,” she says, “and I’m being blackmailed.”

            John sits back and glances at Sherlock, taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. The detective’s face brightens, and he clasps his hands together before his mouth, staring across at Eva Brackwell with intent and intrigue.

            “Go on.”

            Eva takes a moment to uncross her legs and lean forward. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I’m a politician,” she explains. “I currently hold a minor role in the Labour Party. You wouldn’t have heard of any of this, but plans have been set in motion which would give me a chance at gaining a... _higher office_ than my current position. These are just plans, you understand, and the – person whose position I will be taking over will, of course –”

            Sherlock emits a bored grunt. “Mrs Brackwell, I really don’t care about your political machinations,” he snaps. “You’re looking at a promotion, that’s all that matters.”

            A slight frown appears between Eva’s brows. “How did you know I was married?” she asks. “I don’t wear a ring.”

            “You just told me,” Sherlock replies with an air of smug frustration. “Now, if we could move on to the blackmail you mentioned earlier…”

            “Yes, well – my enemies, especially in the Coalition, will take whatever they can get to defame me,” Eva says delicately. “The scandal that this would produce would reflect on my entire party as well, so I’ll have no support there.”

            “What have you done, Mrs Brackwell?”

            After a brief hesitation, Eva sighs, meeting Sherlock’s eye. “When I was in university, I was a member of a socialist community there,” she says. “I’d started out studying journalism, and I wrote a couple of articles that were published in one of the Marxist Society’s papers. Someone’s got hold of them.”

            There is a moment of silence in which Sherlock’s eyes take on a familiar, glazed look. His presses his fingertips together, tapping them against his lips. “Which university?” he asks.

            “London,” Eva answers.

            “And the paper?”

            “ _Alternative_ ,” she sighs, as if in mortification. “It was published monthly.”

            “How many articles are there?”

            “Just the two, both from ’96.”

            Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment, thinking. “How bad are they?”

            Eva hesitates again, as if weighing her options. “They aren’t _entirely_ horrible,” she says, though even John can tell she’s understating. “Just some objective criticism of capitalism and idealistic praise of communist theory. I grew out of the ideas years ago, but if they came out – or, God forbid, get _published_ – well, I’ll be nothing more than a label, won’t I? The _socialist,_ the _communist._ I’ll never hold any significant office again.”

            “Hang on,” John interrupts, holding up a finger and frowning. “Is it just me, or are we forgetting something here?”

            Sherlock’s gaze flicks up to him. “Forgetting something?” he repeats.

            John glances between client and detective and back again. “Who’s blackmailing you?”

            “Oh, I think I know that already,” says Sherlock. “Anyone else and you wouldn’t need my help, would you, Eva?” He pins her in his gaze and John watches as she holds her breath, blanching.

            “Yes,” she says, resignation in the sigh of her breath. “There’s no negotiating with him, not in my position. I didn’t know what else to do, so – I came to you.”

            Sherlock nods once with deliberation, the lines around his mouth tightening. “Charles Milverton.” He glances again at Eva. “Yes?”

            Eva swallows. “Yes.”

            Sherlock takes a breath, and John watches him shift infinitesimally, his muscles tensing and an expression of careful neutrality falling across his features.

            “He’s asking seventy thousand to keep it quiet,” Eva continues – “I can’t afford that. Not right before a promotion, not now. Even if it stops that scandal, I won’t be able to keep up my public image. People will talk. It won’t be as bad, but it definitely won’t be good.”

            Sherlock says nothing, coiled in his chair, deep in thought and heedless of Eva’s rapt, anxious attention. John remains ignored.

            Eventually, Sherlock breaks the silence.

            “I’ll need access to your financials,” he murmurs, still staring into space. “How long has he given you?”

            “Till next Sunday,” says Eva – “the fourteenth.”

            Sherlock thinks for a moment longer before nodding and springing to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs Brackwell,” he says, crossing the room and holding out his hand for Eva to shake. “I’ll need your details by this afternoon – the email’s on the website.”

            Eva stands, shaking Sherlock’s hand and raising her chin. “I give you full authority to make negotiations with him on my behalf,” she says. “You’ll have the information you need by lunchtime.”

            With a final nod, Eva Brackwell leaves the flat, her heels clicking down the stairs with professional ease. Sherlock doesn’t move from his place by the sofa, pressing his palms together in front of his chin as his fingers tap an arrhythmic beat. The sound of a car pulling away from the curb reaches them, and John clears his throat and looks across at the still and silent detective.

            “Who’s Charles Milverton?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “I take it you’ve dealt with him before,” John persists. “What is he, some kind of – professional blackmailer? He’s got a front, I’m assuming. Something with access to people’s dirty laundry.” He glances up, hoping his attempts at deduction will at least coax Sherlock to prove him wrong. “Is he a lawyer or something? Or a – doctor?”

            Sherlock remains silent.

            “All right, don’t tell me,” John grumbles, pushing himself out of his chair. “Have we got any eggs?” When no answer seems forthcoming, John sighs and crosses to the fridge to check for himself. As it turns out, there are still four, reasonably safe eggs left in the carton, and as John pulls out the frying pan and oil, Sherlock stirs, sitting down at the desk in the living room and opening his laptop.

            “You going to eat this morning?” John calls, turning on the stove.

            “Some tea would be nice,” Sherlock replies.

            John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, so would some fresh milk.”

            “I bought some on Wednesday!”

            “Yeah, and you left it out to spoil last night,” John retorts. “Thought you were meant to be _smart,_ world’s only consulting detective and all.”

            Sherlock scowls at his computer, but doesn’t reply; John bites his tongue. The approaching sulk is almost tangible, but John resolutely ignores it as the pan begins to sizzle and pop. He cracks two eggs and starts scrambling.

            After a while, Sherlock’s restlessness overcomes his need to annoy John, and he rises impatiently from the desk.

            “Where are you off to?” John asks, glancing over as Sherlock tugs on his coat.

            “I’m buying the milk.”

            John frowns, taken aback, his scrambling slowing. “Really?”

            “No, I’m just saying that to placate you,” Sherlock replies, straight-faced and indifferent, “I’m actually going out to check if the construction site on Osnaburgh Street is still disrupting traffic.”

_“Sherlock.”_

            He drapes his scarf around his neck and holds back a smile, ignoring the spatula pointed threateningly in his direction. _“Yes,_ I’m getting the milk.”

            John’s lips purse in irritation, and he turns back to his eggs. “Just don’t get distracted by some bloody mud patterns or something,” he grumbles. _“Again.”_

            “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock smirks, tugging on his gloves. “I assure you, the milk is my highest priority.”

            John levels a glare at him, but as he descends the stairs, it’s to the sound of John’s rueful chuckle joining the sizzling of oil in the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

            It’s over two hours before John hears from Sherlock again. His mobile beeps as he drops a plate into the sink after lunch, planning to get Sherlock to clean it for him if the bastard ever reappears.

            “‘Highest priority’ my arse,” he mumbles, pulling out his phone.

 

_Senate House Library,_ _University_ _of_ _London_ _. Require assistance._

_S_

John sighs and rolls his eyes, pressing ‘Reply’.

 

_‘Bring the gun’ assistance or ‘does this look weird to you’ assistance_

            He gets the reply not a minute later as he rummages around the desk for his keys.

 

_‘Help me look through these archives for Brackwell’s articles’ assistance. The Yarders aren’t the only ones who have to endure mindless paperwork._

 

            With a long-suffering groan, John pockets his phone, checks his wallet, and heads out for the Tube. Sherlock may be able to afford taking cabs everywhere, but John certainly can’t. He’s halfway to Euston Square when his phone rings; predictably, it’s Sherlock.

            “Christ, Sherlock, I’m almost there,” he says by way of greeting, “stop being so impatient.”

            “Oh, are you taking the Tube?” Sherlock replies – an observation, not a question. “I’ll meet you at Euston Square. We need to talk, and I’d rather not do it in a library. Anyone could be listening.”

            “And no one is on the street?” John asks, straight-faced.

            “Of course not, don’t be stupid,” says Sherlock dismissively. “I’ll see you there. Tell the man sitting next to you he should probably see a doctor about that cough.”

            Sherlock hangs up and John takes a deep breath, clenching one fist on his knee and resisting the urge to send Sherlock a text informing him that, despite the detective’s low opinion of him, John is not, in fact, an entirely incompetent doctor, and can recognise a man with suspected whooping cough sitting right next to him on the Tube, it’s just that he, unlike some, would rather keep his nose out of other people’s business.

            He’s barely out of Euston Square Station before Sherlock appears at his side, falling seamlessly into step with him. He slips his fingers into the crook of John’s right elbow, directing them both down Gower Street.

            “Accessing the archives is easy enough,” he says, keeping his voice just low enough to be a meaningless drone to unsuspecting passers-by.

            “Yet it took you two hours?” John asks with a raised eyebrow.

            Sherlock glares. “It took me two hours to make sure that the old Marxist Society publications are, in fact, in the archives, and haven’t yet been made electronic; that they _should_ contain duplicate copies of every issue of _Alternative_ from its first publication in 1993 to its last in 2001; and finally, to gain a list of everyone who accessed that part of the archives in the last three months.”

            “And?”

            Frustration and disappointment sour Sherlock’s expression as he steers John around passing strangers and lampposts. “As I feared,” he growls – “the admittance records are hardly specific, and there are too many entries for it to be a viable path of investigation. On top of that, we have no confirmation as to when the articles were found – someone could have brought them to Milverton’s attention years ago and he only waited till now to use them.”

            “Why wait, though?” asks John. “Wouldn’t he want to get it over with quickly in case the police came round?”

            Sherlock’s fingers tighten on John’s arm. “He’s a professional, John,” he says with a withering glance down at his friend. “That’s really the least of his worries.”

            John purses his lips. “You’re still not going to tell me who he is, are you?”

            Sherlock says nothing.

            “Right then.” John clears his throat and adjusts Sherlock’s hand on his elbow. A small frown creases his brow. “Eva said both her articles were published in ‘96…” he starts.

            “And _Alternative_ was only published monthly,” Sherlock finishes for him. “You’re thinking I could probably have done without you.”

            “I wouldn’t have thought twelve issues of a uni magazine were much of a challenge for the great mind of Sherlock Holmes,” John deadpans.

            “They wouldn’t be, had they been properly archived,” says Sherlock with a scowl. “I was directed to two filing cabinets and wished ‘good luck’. I figured I could use some –”

            “Assistance?” John smirks.

            “Exactly.” Mirth tugs at the edges of Sherlock’s mouth, but he suppresses it and pulls John around the corner onto Torrington Place.

 

            As Sherlock had said, getting into the archives isn’t a challenge, particularly under the all-encompassing guise of ‘research’; the two mismatched filing cabinets, however, are. They commandeer a reading room, joining the desks into one long line to form a timeline in which to organise the magazines. Then, taking a drawer each to being with, they start filing.

            It’s dull work. The room fills with the sound of breathing and the crackling rustle of old paper, punctuated by occasional footsteps as one or the other of them leaves to retrieve another drawer. Slowly but steadily, they make their way through the cabinets, the magazine timeline filling up – two copies for each month from September 1993 to December 2001. John more or less organises them; Sherlock seems content to look for the 1996 publications and ignore the rest. After an hour and a half, they’ve gone through both cabinets and picked out every copy from 1996: twenty-two papers, spread out in the centre of their line of tables.

            “Twenty-two…” Sherlock mutters under his breath. “One missing from –” he scans the papers before them – “August, and one from…”

            “Here.” John points. “February.”

            “Milverton’s gone straight to the source, then,” says Sherlock, his expression curiously blank. “Well obviously _he_ didn’t – got some lackey to do it, or whoever told him about the articles... Still, he’s clearly kept up his standards. He’ll have the originals, as well as physical and digital photocopies.”

            John stares at Sherlock, then sighs in annoyance. “You know, you’re definitely not helping the ‘not telling me who he is’ thing by dropping all these stupid hints,” he says, irritation snapping in his voice. “You could just _tell_ me, then this whole business would be a lot –”

            Sherlock cuts him off, eyes still on the papers in front of them “He’s the worst man in London. That’s all you need to know.”

There’s a pause in which John stares first at him, then at the tables. He purses his lips, and sighs.

            “Here –” Sherlock snaps, tossing John the remaining February issue of _Alternative_ and grabbing the August for himself. “Find Brackwell’s article, read it, then we’ll swap.”

            “I get this feeling she wouldn’t want both of us reading the articles being used to _blackmail her,”_ says John, flipping open the magazine regardless.

            “I’m not arguing with you too, John,” Sherlock replies, settling back into a chair. “This case requires full confidentiality, between all parties. Either both of us read them, or neither of us do – and we have to know their contents to be able to negotiate with Milverton properly.”

            “So we _are_ negotiating with him,” says John, but Sherlock’s buried himself in the magazine and doesn’t seem likely to resurface just to clarify the exact nature of their investigation. John shakes his head, pulls out a chair, and starts reading.

            Eva had been more or less accurate in her description of the articles. They’re very well argued, and it’s clear that she’s meant for politics – John finds himself almost agreeing with the theories before kicking himself and remembering that there’s no way they would actually work in the real world. They’re idealistic and a little bit ignorant, but show clear support of a Western Communist revolution – a _true_ revolution, violence, class overthrow and all. It wouldn’t matter whether or not Eva still holds the same views – were they to be exposed to the political world, her career would be over.

            John and Sherlock swap articles after a few minutes, and when they’ve both finished reading, they set down the papers and sit back. John glances at Sherlock, but his expression is shuttered and calculating – he clearly isn’t going to be revealing his thoughts anytime soon.

            “Should we make copies of them?” John asks, trying not to disturb the detective’s thoughts.

            Sherlock shakes his head just once. “No,” he murmurs. “The fewer copies of these in the world, the better. Put them away.”

            As Sherlock curls himself into the confines of his little plastic chair, John starts filing away the magazines, trying to keep his tread soft as he walks between the reading room and the archives, storing the old papers in far better order than they’d found them. It takes fifteen minutes for them all to be painstakingly filed, but John feels the success of a job well done just as Sherlock seems to decide on a course of action. He springs to his feet and sweeps off, John following at his heels with a final, guilty glance back at the room, tables and chairs left in haphazard disorder.

            “No need to thank us,” Sherlock calls as he strides past reception on his way out onto the street, heedless of the stares of the young woman seated behind the desk.

            “So where to now?” asks John, hurrying to keep up.

            “Home,” says Sherlock, the terse command in his voice unmistakeable. “I need to review Brackwell’s financials.”

            “And then?”

            Sherlock’s reply is flat and detached. “There’s nothing we can do until Milverton contacts us.”

            “Wait – until _he_ contacts _us?”_ John’s eyebrows shoot up.

            “He’ll have put Eva under basic surveillance,” Sherlock replies, far too nonchalant about the matter for John’s liking. “He’ll know she’s consulted me.”

            John frowns, but Sherlock ignores him, hurrying forward to hail a cab.

 

            They make one stop on the way home, and, true to his word, Sherlock buys milk. (“Only you could take four hours to get the milk,” John grumbles, significantly more fond than annoyed.) When they make it back home, Sherlock drops down in front of his laptop; John doesn’t bother asking whether or not he’s going to eat. As Sherlock researches and calculates and deduces, John settles in his armchair with a book and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him. He’s continually distracted, though, by thoughts of the mysterious Charles Milverton. It’s clear that Sherlock’s faced him before, and it’s even more obvious that, however Sherlock tries to compose himself, Milverton must be one antagonistic bastard. For someone like Sherlock – scourge of London murderers and well-acquainted with a certain consulting criminal – to call him “the worst man in London”… John shudders to think what they’re up against.

            In the end, he gives up on his book and decides to make dinner, cooking bolognaise for two and putting half straight in the fridge. When he goes to bed, Sherlock is still coiled in front of his laptop, staring at the screen, his fingertips tapping impatiently under his nose.


	3. Chapter 3

            “Why hasn’t he _contacted me?”_

            It’s half eight in the morning and Sherlock is pacing the sitting room, his blue dressing gown swirling around him, thrown on over the trousers and shirt from the day before. There are bruises already starting to show beneath his eyes, and his swinging hands are clenched into fists. Sitting at the table across from the stressful humming of Sherlock’s computer, John tracks his erratic path. He shrugs and swallows a mouthful of Weetabix.

            “Maybe he really hasn’t got Eva under surveillance,” he suggests. “Doesn’t know you’re involved.”

            “Of course he knows we’re involved, there’s no question of that,” Sherlock snaps. “The only question is, _what is he waiting for?”_

            “Sherlock you _need_ to calm down,” says John firmly. “Sit down, have something to eat –”

            “I don’t eat when I’m working, you know that!”

            “Obsessing like this isn’t helping! If he contacts you, he will, if not –”

            “If he doesn’t contact me, it means he’s not willing to negotiate,” Sherlock snaps. “I could arrange an appointment with him myself, but that would mean secretaries, bureaucracy, deliberately difficult schedules – and even if I _do_ manage to see him sometime soon, the likelihood that he’ll use it to do anything but gloat is so low that –”

            He’s interrupted by an innocuous _ping_ ringing out from his laptop, stopping him in his tracks. He stares at the computer, then all but leaps into the chair opposite John, fingers flying over the keyboard, his attention riveted to the screen. Whatever he finds makes his mouth tighten with bitter determination, and he pauses for a moment before throwing himself out of his chair and resuming his restless pacing. John frowns in interest, first at Sherlock, then the laptop, and leans over to turn the screen to face him.

            The browser is open to Sherlock’s website, showing a new message on the forum page.

 

              ** _C.A.M._**

_6:30 tonight, my office._

 

            “Huh,” says John blankly. He frowns. “What’s the ‘A’ stand for?”

            _“Augustus,”_ Sherlock mutters. John gives a small snort of derision but says nothing. Sherlock turns on his heel at the edge of the carpet, still pacing.

            “So you’ll be going then?” John asks after a pause, genuinely curious as to how this rivalry will play out.

            _“We’ll_ be going, yes.”

            John frowns, taken aback. “Why do you need me there?”

            Sherlock stops pacing to look at him. “Why shouldn’t I?” he says, oblivious.

            With a shrug, John replies, “Dunno. Figured it’s an important case, so…”

            “All the more reason to bring you along.”

            John nods once, slowly, as Sherlock resumes his pacing. “Right. Okay then. So what do we do till then?”

            “Whatever banal activities you normally fill your days with,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I have research to do. I’ll meet you back here at five.”

            With that, he disappears into his room. Five minutes later, he’s changed and out the door, leaving John to wonder at the laconic message left by C.A.M and Sherlock’s remarkable response.

 

            Sherlock returns at a quarter past six to find John contemplating the menu for a local Indian place and absent-mindedly cleaning his gun. He smirks as he passes through the living room.

            “You won’t be needing that _quite_ yet, John.”

            “Really? Bugger,” John replies without a hint of sarcasm. “I was hoping to just shoot the bastard and be done with it.”

            Sherlock’s dark chuckle echoes back from his bedroom. “If we’re lucky, you won’t be needing it at all.”

            “Didn’t think you were the type to trust to luck.” John locks away the weapon once more. “So where is this meeting, anyway?” he calls over his shoulder.

            Sherlock’s reply is muffled. “AppledoreTower, on Hampstead Road. Not _too_ conspicuous an area for his level of extravagance, but he likes to stand out just a bit. We’ll catch a cab most of the way, but I want to approach the building on foot.”

            John frowns in the direction of the hall. “You sound like you’re planning a heist,” he says, unamused.

            “Only as a very last resort,” says Sherlock, mischief playing in his features as he emerges from his room, tucking a clean shirt into his trousers and slipping on a jacket. “Come on, get your coat. Let’s get this over with.”

 

            They take a cab to Euston Road, getting out early and walking the extra block to Hampstead Road. Outside, though the sun has set, the air is thick with humidity, heavy clouds holding in the sweat of the day despite the cold. Not far from the busy intersection, they come to a huge glass-and-concrete high-rise which seems to tower over the rest of the street, lights glinting in its polished façade. There’s a service entrance to one side – a small lane with a black, less-than-modest limousine parked within – blocked off by a padlocked, chain-link fence, and even John notices the security cameras on the front of the building.

            “Humble bloke, is he?” he remarks, causing Sherlock to snort as they push through the revolving door and make their way into a marble-lined lobby. The place is bustling with activity even at this late hour on a Sunday, deliveries coming and going and messengers charging headfirst into the crowd. Large television screens are mounted near the ceiling, broadcasting advertisements and the evening news, only just audible over the noise of the crowd. Everywhere John looks there are carts and boxes and racks and shelves, stacked high with glossy covers, bold headlines, and bright pictures.

            “He’s a…”

            “Magazine editor,” Sherlock finishes for him.

            “That’s how he gets all the gossip,” says John with a questioning glance at the detective. “There must be twenty different companies in here, they all come to him…”

            “Every lucky photographer, every faithless friend, every bitter cleaner,” Sherlock murmurs. “They bring their findings to Milverton, and he distributes them to the headlines and gossip columns of London.”

            “But it’s not just celebrities, is it?” asks John, half-fearing the answer. “Not just the film stars and big names – small-time politicians, like Eva, who haven’t made it yet. Ordinary people…”

            Sherlock drops an interested glance down at him. “And celebrities aren’t ordinary people?” he asks, a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

            “No, I mean – but they’re _used_ to the attention,” John counters, “they can expect it –”

            “Milverton targets anyone who can pay,” says Sherlock, eyeing the screens, the covers, the swarm of business, “and often those who can’t. He has an excellent eye for people – he recognises when someone will come into success. He knows just when to hold back and when to strike for the maximum profit.”

            John says nothing for a moment, shocked at the iniquitous industry and wondering how many of those bustling about them are involved in more than just innocent magazines. Eventually, he gives in to a one-word assessment.

_“Fuck.”_

            A subtle chuckle rings once in Sherlock’s chest. “An accurate judgement, if a little inelegant.” He smiles mirthlessly at John. “Shall we?”

            John takes a deep breath. “Into the breach, then,” he mutters.

            They make their way through the press of photographers, journalists, buyers, sellers, wranglers, designers and gossip-mongers to the front desk, where a woman with spindly glasses, a Bluetooth headset, and perfectly-positioned chopsticks in her hair greets them with false warmth and thinly-veiled suspicion.

            “Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?”

            “We have an appointment with Mr Milverton,” says Sherlock, condescension summoned from deep in his throat to curl around the words. The woman taps at the keyboard in front of her, fake fingernails scraping over the letters.

            “Mr Holmes, is it?” she asks. Sherlock nods. “I should warn you, Mr Holmes, that Mr Milverton’s meetings often deal with classified information, and he prides himself on his professional conduct. Confidence is of the highest concern in these matters.” She levels a significant glance at John. “We can find somewhere for your friend to wait while you meet with –”

            “That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock bites out the syllables with easy, if scathing, resolution.

            The woman raises her thin, arched eyebrows, but doesn’t argue. “Very well, then,” she says, professional restraint in her voice. “Please proceed to the Security Desk on level three, and you will be directed to Mr Milverton’s private office as soon as he’s available. Good evening, and thank you for your service.” With which practiced dismissal she waves them away to a corridor of elevator doors. An upright man waits there to direct them to the right one, somehow endowed with the instinctive knowledge of where they’re going (or perhaps it’s the subtle earpiece attached to his collar) and handing them over to another man waiting inside the lift. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, leaving John to square his shoulders and abort his polite smile in face of the man’s calculating glance.

            They’re let out at level three and sent down the corridor to a large room lined on one side with small television screens. In front of the screens is a long desk, covered in computers and tangled wires. Through the doors around them, John catches glimpses of the actual work of the building: desks strewn with paper and entire walls covered with deconstructed magazine spreads, all punctuated by the syncopated sounds of phone conversations and furious typing. Four burly, efficient security guards appear from behind the long desk, and Sherlock and John are perfunctorily frisked, metal detectors flashing thrice and disappearing again. Their phones are confiscated, and they’re handed back to the lifts, this time under the supervision of a smart, older woman who takes them straight up to the thirtieth floor – the loft.

            They are let out into more marbled splendour which ends abruptly at the edge of the corridor of lifts. The woman points them down a white hallway lined on one side with doors before being engulfed once more by the smooth metal doors. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at John who blows a fortifying sigh through his mouth and nods for Sherlock to lead the way.

            The passage brings them to a wide, empty doorway and a large, lobby-like space marked only by a single mahogany door, flanked by a stiff-backed chair and an even stiffer-backed security guard who spares a single glance for Sherlock and nothing for John. The polished wood of the door is in complete contrast to the marble and glass of the lobby and the blank, white walls of the thirtieth floor, forming an almost unnatural portal in the plainness of its surroundings.

            Sherlock stands opposite the door, his coat buttoned to the top after the search on the third floor security desk, scarf wound tight about his neck and collar pulled up protectively around it. Leaning back against the wall next to him, John unbuttons his jacket and crosses his arms.

            They wait.

            The guard is unmoving, and John begins to wonder if he even blinks. Sherlock is a stiff, black-and-white statue beside him, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets and his expression faintly calculating. A clock ticks somewhere unseen.

            Every time John checks his watch, it seems not even a minute has passed; his subdued sighs get increasingly frustrated.

            Finally, after almost ten minutes, John hears a click of static from the security guard’s earpiece and the brief murmur of a voice. The guard steps forward and unlocks the door with a swipe of a key card, pushing it open for John and Sherlock. The detective goes first, crossing the blank room and sweeping across the threshold with silent impudence, followed by the rather less severe doctor. The door snaps shut behind them.

            They find themselves in a windowless waiting room with walls of panelled mahogany even more highly-polished than the door. There is a row of chairs to their left, all dark wood and red cushions and burnished gold tacking, sitting on the wooden border around a plush, wine-coloured rug. The rich furnishings making the room seem claustrophobic, despite its actual size. A door stands ajar to the right.

            “Come in!” calls a syrupy voice from within.

            John glances once at Sherlock’s impassive face and lets him lead the way.

            The room they enter is moderately-sized, but luxuriously-furnished. More mahogany lines the walls, where they aren’t obscured by ceiling-high bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes and marble bookends, strikingly white against the and reds and browns that predominate the colour scheme. The left-hand wall is almost entirely taken up by a huge glass window door leading to a modest balcony, heavy red curtains swept aside to provide a grand view south over the city. John feels a mild sense of vertigo underlying the nauseating richness of wood and leather.

            Opposite the door, in the corner, stands a large, dark green safe, beside some filing cabinets and yet more bookshelves. In the centre of the room, facing them, is a wide desk – more mahogany; John’s starting to get sick of the colour – inlaid with a simple, classical design. It supports a desktop computer and nothing else.

            “Ah, gentlemen! How lovely to see you.”

            Pushing himself out of a red leather swivel chair, is Charles Augustus Milverton.

            A little over fifty years old, plump and elegantly-dressed, he extends one flipper-like hand. He has round, hairless cheeks and a large nose, on the end of which perch a pair of small, circular spectacles, gold rims glinting in the light of the ceiling lamp. His hair is neat and his smile broad – he’d be almost pleasant if it weren’t for the instinctive thrill of repulsion creeping down John’s spine.

            Sherlock ignores the extended hand, his own remaining buried in his pockets, his face a careful blank. Milverton’s smile broadens.

            “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, his smooth voice edged with condescending politeness – “no doubt my receptionist wasn’t quite clear enough. Our discussion is a confidential one. I’m sure your little sidekick is dear to you, but –”

            “Doctor Watson is my colleague,” says Sherlock, voice as stony as his expression. “He is and will be partial to all details of the case.”

            Milverton’s small, creased eyes slide across to John for a moment, his dark gaze enough to make John’s lip curl. Whatever the editor finds, it makes his infuriating smile reappear, fat, pink lips pressed together over his teeth. “As you wish,” he murmurs. “Please, Sherlock, take a seat.” He gestures to a single chair, perched between John and the desk. “The good doctor will have to stand, I’m afraid – I wasn’t anticipating his delightful company.”

            John’s scowl deepens. Neither of them sit.

            Shrugging mildly, Milverton lowers himself into his own chair with a prolonged squeal of leather, the computer humming away on his right.

            “So! Gentlemen.” He spreads his stubby hands wide in welcome; the awful smile is back. “What can I do for you?”

            “Eva Brackwell,” says Sherlock laconically.

            “Ah yes!” Milverton cries, his eyes glittering. “Eva, of course, dear Eva, how remiss of me.” He clasps his hands on the table in front of him. “I take it she’s given you full power of negotiation? How good of her. When a lady’s honour is at stake it _is_ best to put the matter into the hands of men who can deal with such things.”

            John crosses his arms over his chest in lieu of beating the man to death with his bare fists, gritting his teeth to hold back a snarled invective. He thinks he sees Sherlock’s fists tighten in his pockets.

            “You’re an intelligent young man,” Milverton continues, regardless, “I’m sure you managed to find the articles in question. They’re very… _impassioned,_ wouldn’t you say?” His mouth sweeps into an amused smirk. “I’m sure her political colleagues would find them rather interesting, don’t you?”

            Sherlock wastes no time continuing the discussion. “Seventy-thousand pounds is out of the question,” he says, low and emotionless. “Not only can Eva not afford it, but the articles are nowhere near that damaging.”

            Milverton looks almost hurt. “Oh, Sherlock, do you really think I’d charge so much for something as harmless as all that? You obviously misunderstand the world of politics.” His face stretches into an amiable beam. “I think – _perhaps_ – you should rethink your conclusions about the documents in question.”

            John can tell that a foothold has been lost. He shifts his weight and glances up at Sherlock. The detective’s expression is as close to shocked as it can get, carved out of granite as it is. His brow is dark, and the lines around his mouth are taut and downturned.

            “Be that as it may,” he says, flat and precisely-enunciated as ever, “Ms Brackwell can’t afford the seventy thousand. _Twenty_ thousand will drain her assets. You must lower your price.”

            Milverton blows out his cheeks in affected contemplation. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” he smiles. “If she just took a _little_ bit out of her campaign funds, stopped dragging that young man of hers out to eat so extravagantly – I’m sure she could afford the price I ask. And for such a _dear_ little package, well – I imagine any price would be worth the avoidance of scandal.”

_“She can’t afford it.”_

            “Well,” Milverton sighs, “then I guess we’ve come to an impasse.” His smile is almost playfully predatory, his manner suggesting indulgence.

            “Lower your price,” Sherlock repeats, icy and blank.

            “I’d rather not.”

_“Lower your price.”_

            Milverton’s smile slips into something sharper. “You don’t seem to understand how this negotiation works –”

            “You have nothing to gain from Eva Brackwell’s ruin,” Sherlock snaps.

            Milverton’s thick, neat eyebrows shoot up and his smile draws itself out again, amusement in his eyes. “Oh, you _are_ new to this, aren’t you?” he says slowly, as if in wonder. “On the contrary, I have plenty to gain. Some of my clients have been a little… unwilling to cooperate with me. Eva’s example might be just the thing to remind them what’s at stake.” Silence reigns for a moment, Sherlock saying nothing. Milverton heaves a deep, mournful sigh. “But – if you think it’s in Eva’s best interests to defy me, then by all means – I wish you a good evening and politely request that you leave my office.”

_“Wait –”_ Sherlock takes a long breath through his nose. John thinks he sees a muscle twitch in his cheek. “We would – of course – rather come to a mutually beneficial agreement on the matter.”

            Leaning back in his chair, Milverton’s smile blooms back into life. “That’s better,” he purrs. “If you think seventy thousand pounds is a bit much, well…” He sighs again, more false contemplation, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “I suppose I can afford a bit of a discount. Is… sixty-five more amenable to you?” He grins, and John glimpses a row of small, sharp teeth.

            “Thirty,” Sherlock bites.

_“Oh,_ so little? I’m offended!” Milverton tuts. “Sixty-three.”

            Sherlock stares at him, his shoulders tense beneath the smooth lines of his coat. “Thirty-six,” he offers.

            “Nice bit of number play, but I’m afraid not _quite_ to my standards –”

            “Forty thousand pounds,” Sherlock snaps, “final offer.”

            Milverton freezes. His smile oozes from his face like oil. “Final – offer,” he repeats, slow and precise, as if he can’t believe his ears.

            “Forty thousand,” Sherlock says again, the slightest of wavers hiding in his throat.

            “Final offer.” Milverton blinks, his gaze sliding over to John and returning to Sherlock in his own time. He leans forward over the desk, clasping his hands before his chin. “Then I will take seventy thousand pounds and not a penny less.”

            John’s hands drop to grip the back of the chair in front of him. The legs are already beginning to part from the carpet when Sherlock catches his gaze in the corner of his eye. With an outward hiss of breath through his nose, John leans his weight over his hands as if that had been his intention all along, pressing the chair back down. Milverton’s smile slips insidiously back into place.

            “Now,” he croons. “Good evening, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I have a few more little interviews tonight, and the final cover for tomorrow’s _Daily Star_ is hardly going to approve itself. I’m sure you can find your way back to the lifts.”

            Hardly seeming to breathe, Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the room. John spares a final, disgusted glare at Milverton, but is met only with another simpering smile, and he resists the urge to retch as he follows his friend. Sherlock wrenches open the outer door and leaves John to slam it shut behind them, his own hands jammed in his coat pockets as he hurries to catch up with the seething flurry of coat that is Sherlock Holmes.

            “The slimy, evil, son-of-a…” John mutters as they stride toward the lifts. “You know, I can see why you don’t like talking about him. I swear to God…”

            Sherlock says nothing, his hands still buried in his pockets and his eyes burning with hatred and humiliation. They retrieve their mobiles from Security and make their way back through the lobby, their footsteps echoing on the marble of the suddenly-empty room. Sherlock throws himself onto the street as if desperate to get out of the building and glares at the traffic, seething at the lack of taxis.

            “Sherlock…” John starts.

            “Don’t,” Sherlock snaps. “That was the most disastrous –”

            “Yeah, but that’s hardly _your_ fault, the bastard’s –”

            Sherlock spins on his heel and leans into John’s space, his hands still clenched in his pockets. “No, John, it _is_ my fault!” he hisses. “He was _toying_ with me! And now Eva’s –”

            “Sherlock –” John’s hand darts out, his half-clenched fingers just nudging Sherlock’s ribs to stop him turning away. “We _will_ help her,” he insists. “You’ll think of something, and I will do everything I can to help you. Okay?” Sherlock says nothing. “We can do this. You’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this, I _know_ you can beat him.”

            Sherlock stares at him for a moment, as if willing himself to believe the words. His expression is tight and his eyes wide, reminding John of a deer in headlights. Then, with a slow, relieving sigh, he relaxes, his gaze dropping. John lets his hand fall to his side.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, not meeting John’s eye. “And for – you, there, _being,_ there, it was – a good thing, that you…”

            John watches the words stop making sense, his eyebrows rising in bemusement. A moment later, though, he smiles, wide, brilliant, and understanding. “Bloody hell, you’re lucky I speak ‘Sherlock’,” he chuckles. He presses his lips together, an amused half-sigh escaping through his nose. “It sounds a bit twisted, but it was my pleasure,” he says. The huff of breath that escapes Sherlock sounds a bit like laughter, so John takes it as a victory. He nods once and disengages, stepping back and turning to the street. “Now, let’s see if we can get a cab…”

            Sherlock looks up just as a familiar black shape appears in the traffic. He steps up to the curb, lifts his arm:

_“Taxi!”_


	4. Chapter 4

            Sherlock is silent for the cab ride home, and when they finally reach the comfort of Baker Street, he sinks into his armchair, his face a careful blank and his hands linked around his drawn-up knees. John recognises the behaviour, and knows what it means: _I’m thinking. Don’t disturb me._

            Obediently, John lets him be, settling in his own chair to scribble down some notes on the case so far and the confrontation with Milverton. His notebook has proved useful in the past, and not only when it comes to finally writing up blog posts about their cases. John notices things that Sherlock doesn’t – usually small, mundane things, details about the impressions people give off, that somehow pass under the detective’s radar – and more than once, these details have been useful to Sherlock’s investigations.

            Not to mention, they’re an excusable distraction from the mess in the kitchen.

            Across from him, Sherlock is still and silent, analysing and deducing and planning. Every now and then, the lines around his mouth tighten, and he gives the smallest shake of his head, as if discarding some useless notion. At a guess, John reckons he’s probably formulated at least three different ways of outmanoeuvring Milverton; he sincerely hopes that none of these involve the joked-about heist.

            By the time Sherlock stirs, John has finished writing up his notes, made dinner, and successfully ignored the lingering washing-up. He’s just settling down in the kitchen with a mug of tea and the newspaper when the detective uncoils and springs to his feet, determination in his step.

            “Where are you off to?” John asks, but the detective ignores him, stalking past into his room. When he re-emerges ten minutes later, it takes John a moment to recognise him. His hair has been straightened and dragged over his forehead, and he now sports a small moustache and smaller goatee, framing impossibly thinner lips. He’s also donned a pair of chunky, black-rimmed glasses which help to distract from the unusual shape of his face.

It’s the clothes, however, that really throw John off.

            Sherlock’s wearing dark skinny jeans, a scuffed pair of Converse All-Stars and a thin V-necked t-shirt under a plain, unbuttoned shirt. There’s a red tasselled scarf bunched up around his neck, and he’s shrugging on a vintage-looking blazer, an old, leather messenger bag hanging from one shoulder. He looks fairly hipster. And _young._ John opens his mouth to comment, but nothing comes out for a moment, and he just looks confused.

            “… Sherlock,” he finally manages, a question hidden somewhere in the statement.

            “I’m going out,” Sherlock explains, tugging on a fedora and further flattening his hair. “I’ll be back sometime.”

            John gapes after him as he darts out onto the stairs. “It’s gone eight,” he calls, _“what do you expect to achieve at this_ – oh, never mind…” The downstairs door slams shut, and John sighs, returning to his tea.

 

            Sherlock’s in and out of the house for the next five days, at all hours and in all manner of disguises, though he seems to prefer the hipster look to any other. He refuses to explain himself to John other than the occasional fleeting remark over a bite of stolen toast; on the Wednesday after the meeting with Milverton, he comes home at three in the morning looking ecstatically triumphant, only to explain that his time around Appledore Tower has been very fruitful indeed, as he takes a gulp of John’s tea and picks up his violin. If John had been expecting something to lull him to sleep, he is disappointed – Sherlock sets three pages of sheet music on the stand and proceeds to scratch erratically and repetitively until long past dawn.

            After this, Sherlock starts taking the violin out on his investigations. He seems to be forming a pattern – his mornings are spent somewhere with his violin, then he reappears sometime after lunch to change into his skinny jeans and blazer, not returning until well after midnight. John takes some shifts at the clinic and tries not to get too distracted speculating about what Sherlock’s up to, though after the detective’s initial insistence upon his inclusion, he wonders at the sudden return to individual investigation.

           On Friday morning, the air thick and dreary even before sunrise, John is woken by the insistent buzzing of an incoming text. He gropes blindly for his phone, squinting against the glare of the screen.

 

_Eva Brackwell expects you at Westminster Palace at 10:45. Sarah knows you can’t make it into work._

_S_

            John buries his face in his pillow and groans before fumbling out a reply.

 

_1- why the fuck couldn’t this wait 2- what do you expect me to say to eva 3- YOU CAN’T DO THAT I HAVE A JOB WE NEED THE MONEY_

            The reply comes just as he begins to doze off:

 

_Investigation coming to a head. Three options on Eva’s end: pay, endure the scandal, or prosecute. Get her answer and be back home by 5._

            John groans again, thumping the pillow for good measure and angrily kicking away the blankets. He heads for the shower, but not before sending a final text to Sherlock.

 

_If this is payback for waking you up on saturday, I am going to kill you_

 

           

            Any pleasure John might have gotten from being brought back into the investigation is eaten up by his annoyance at being woken so early, not to mention Sherlock’s casual disregard for his actual, _paying_ job. The dark clouds gathering on the horizon don’t help. Nonetheless, he catches the tube to Westminster at half ten and makes his way into the imposing building, hemmed in on all sides by camera-clutching tourists. Eva Brackwell is waiting for him in the lobby.

            “Dr Watson,” she greets him with a polite smile and an extended hand which John perfunctorily shakes. She’s taller than him in her high heels. “Sherlock told me you’d be coming. Why don’t we find somewhere a bit more private to talk?”

            John nods and goes along with it, following her clicking heels down corridors and stairwells, past tour groups and MPs, until they reach a door that looks, to John, just like all the others that they’ve passed. Eva holds it open for him, ushering him into a small office, clean and impersonal, with sunlight streaming through the window and books lined neatly along the shelves. She shows John to a seat before her desk and settles opposite him.

            “So?”

            John clears his throat. “Right, well,” he starts – “Sherlock sent me…”

            “I know that,” says Eva, amusement in the quirk of her eyebrow.

            John steels himself, pursing his lips. “Says the investigation’s coming to a head,” he continues. “Can’t tell you what he’s doing, but at this stage, you’ve got three options.”

            “Pay, don’t pay and suffer the consequences,” Eva finishes for him, “or try to prosecute Milverton and _still_ suffer the consequences. I know.” She sighs, a restrained, professional, utterly distraught exhalation. “I can’t pay. That much is obvious.”

            “But you can’t have the scandal.”

            She shakes her head mournfully. “I realise that I could bring Milverton to court over this,” she says, “but I won’t risk my career for one petty blackmailer. I don’t care how much good it would do.”

            “You think there’s a chance you could prosecute him successfully?”

            “Honestly?” says Eva, meeting his eye. “No. It’s too late now to bring the matter to the police before the payment’s due, and if I did, he’d either publish, or get the articles to the right people before they could be found on him. If I wait, and he publishes, there’s no case – no proof of actual blackmail, just a newspaper with the right contacts. He won’t even be connected to it.”

            “So you’ll do nothing.”

            “I put my case in Mr Holmes’ hands,” she says firmly. “He failed to negotiate a lower price –” John bristles at the memory, but stays quiet – “and now it’s his turn to make a decision. Yesterday he assured me that the articles won’t be released, and I _told_ him that I’m not willing to prosecute.” Her defined mouth lifts in a rueful smirk. “It’s up to you two now.”

 

            John finds the flat empty when he gets home, and texts Sherlock the results of the interview before settling down for a despondent lunch. At around one o’clock, Sherlock flits through, harried and restless, throwing down his violin and stealing half of John’s sandwich before disappearing into his room to change.

            “What are you going to do about Eva?” asks John, standing and following Sherlock only to find the door slammed in his face.

            “Nothing,” comes the muffled reply. “As for _Milverton…”_

            “You’ve got a plan?” John asks through the wood, bewildered, though he knows he shouldn’t be.

            “Yes, and it’s all coming together quite nicely, now Thurgood’s agreed to cooperate.”

            “Thurgood?” John repeats. “Who’s Thurgood?”

            “No time to explain,” Sherlock babbles as he bursts out of the room in jeans and Converse, “I have to go accept a marriage proposal.” He pushes past John, irritably hiding his curls under a fedora, leather bag and scarf trailing behind him as he darts down the stairs. _“Be here at five!”_ is his parting shot, before the front door slams and silence descends once more.

            Standing in the hall, John squares his shoulders and considers being deliberately late. Instead, he purses his lips, gives a frustrated huff, and returns to his lunch. Over the course of the afternoon, prematurely dark with an impending storm, he receives three texts from Sherlock, each more bewildering than the last, instructing him first to ignore any calls asking for Darren Escott, then to retrieve the spare violin case from his bedroom, and finally to find a hammer. John does his duty despite his confusion, successfully turning away a call on the landline, hefting a padded, dark blue violin case into the sitting room, and going out on a hunt for a cheap, ordinary hammer. He returns just before the storm breaks overhead, rain pounding at the pavement and a fierce wind rattling the windows.

            At six minutes past five, Sherlock bursts into the flat, shaking water out of his hair and making a beeline for the desk. He ignores John – currently sitting in his armchair and shooting him questioning looks over the lid of his laptop – and boots up his computer. Between bouts of typing and intense study, Sherlock half-removes his disguise, shrugging off his sopping scarf and jacket with an expression of distaste and toeing blindly out of his shoes. John keeps glancing at him, waiting for an explanation, when he notices a flash of gold on Sherlock’s finger; he’s almost refocused on updating his blog before it registers and his eyes dart back up. He stares, momentarily shocked into silence.

            “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding,” he finally says.

            Sherlock hums in absent acknowledgement.

            “That’s an engagement ring, you got –” John’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “All right, what are you up to?”

            Tearing his eyes away from the screen, Sherlock glances over. “Hm? Oh.” He looks down at the ring and twists it off his finger, tossing it into the mess on the desk. “Yes, I didn’t think you believed me earlier.”

            John stares. “Well, you’re hardly the marrying type,” he deadpans. “Unless it’s to your work.” Sherlock says nothing, and John frowns. “You seriously accepted a marriage proposal? For a _case?”_

            Sherlock doesn’t reply, plucking a memory stick from a pile of papers and returning to the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. John’s mouth tightens.

            “So – who’s the lucky woman?” he asks in a semblance of calm. “Or man, I guess.”

            Smirking, Sherlock gives a final, triumphant stab at the keyboard and turns to John, relaxing into his chair. _“She_ is on the cleaning staff at Appledore Tower,” he explains. “In return for my temporary hand in marriage, she agreed to help me with a bit of security navigation.”

            John snorts. “Can’t imagine anyone agreeing to marry _you.”_

            “She didn’t,” says Sherlock. “She agreed to marry Darren Escott, journalism postgraduate and willing pawn in her scheme to convince her parents to let her marry an author. She loves him, he loves her, it’s all sickeningly dull – but her mother doesn’t approve of his career prospects. I come along, ask for directions around security at her building then disappear the moment she proposes to me – I think that might put things a little in perspective, don’t you?” He smiles unnervingly. “The only problem now is what to do with a stray engagement ring.” He waves his fingers in the direction of the desk.

            John stares, then nods once, slowly. “Right,” he mutters. “And – why did you need one of the cleaning staff to show you around security at Appledore Tower?”

            Sherlock levels him with a condescending glare. “Are you really that stupid, or do you do this just to annoy me?”

            Ignoring the insult, John half-closes his laptop to focus on Sherlock. “Please tell me you’re not planning on breaking into Milverton’s office.”

            “Of course I am.” Sherlock’s tone is flippant, but there’s something in the way he turns back to his computer that agrees with the dread blooming in John’s midsection. He can see it all – the detection, the capture, the disgrace; Sherlock lying at Milverton’s mercy – what little of it he might have.

            “Sherlock, for God’s sake,” says John, his voice rising, “you can’t do this!”

            “I can, and I will.” Sherlock isn’t looking at him.

            Disbelief turns to anger, and John forces himself not to shout. “No, you can’t! I _saw_ the security on that building, there’s no way you’ll get in unseen! What happens if you’re caught? Think about –”

            “I _have_ thought, John,” Sherlock snaps, finally turning back to him. “I’ve done nothing but think for the past five days, but the fact is, this is the _only option I have._ Eva can’t pay. She can’t endure the scandal. She hired _me_ to fix this, and I told her I would. If there was anything else I could do, don’t you think I would have done it by now?”

            John’s lips tighten. “Yes, but I’m just saying –”

            “Exactly – there _is_ no other way! I’ve gone to his past victims, I’ve gone through the lawsuits against him, there is _no one_ willing to testify against him, _that’s how he works._ They’re all scared of him, scared of what he can do, what he _has_ done. Without evidence, there’s no chance of a warrant, without a warrant, there’s no formal search, and with no formal search, _there is – no – case.”_ He takes a fortifying breath and turns back to his computer, preparing to shut it down. “There’s nothing to be done on Eva’s end, and there’s no way of taking Milverton out of the picture. Therefore, the only option is to remove the final factor – the blackmail material itself. The grace period ends tomorrow. Either I abandon my client to ruin, or I steal back the articles tonight.”

            John is silent for a moment, lips pursed and gaze stern. “Sherlock,” he growls, “you can’t _burgle this man’s office –”_

            Sherlock cuts him off. “If your problem’s with the law, give it up,” he says. “I think you’ll agree that I’m in the right here, morally, if not legally.”

            “True,” says John, without hesitation, “as long as you’re only taking the blackmail materials –”

            “So,” Sherlock continues over him, “if the action is necessary, and morally justifiable, the only question is of personal risk.” He shuts his laptop and looks over, catching John’s eye. “Eva is my client. She needs a solution, and my job is to provide it, whatever the cost. I do have some self-respect, and a reputation to uphold.”

           He turns back to the desk, pushing the computer away and fiddling with the USB in his hands. His shoulders are stiff. John shuts his own laptop and sets it on the floor. He sighs, leaning forward and clasping his hands together between his knees.

            “All right then,” he says mildly, and takes a resolute breath. He’s never avoided the inevitable before, and he’s hardly going to start now. He looks up at Sherlock; his hand is still. “When do we start?”

            Sherlock gives a sharp frown and turns it on John. “You’re not coming,” he says, thrown by the assumption.

            “Well then you’re not going,” John replies. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John cuts him off. “I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don’t let me share this with you, I’m calling Lestrade right now and turning you in.”

            “John –”

            He pulls out his phone and holds it up threateningly. “I’ve got him on speed dial.”

            _“John –”_

            “Speed dial _two…”_

            _“You can’t help me.”_

            “You don’t know that,” John argues. “You don’t know what could happen. Anyway, my mind’s made up.” He sits back in his chair, hands on armrests and expression firm. “People other than you have self-respect you know. Even reputations.” He doesn’t smile, but the amusement is there in the quirk of his brow and the set of his mouth. Sherlock tries to retain a stony silence, but instead, his face cracks into a grin, relief showing in the drop of his shoulders. He laughs, a small, dark chuckle dredged up from somewhere in his diaphragm, and presses his lips together, failing to suppress the smile.

            “All right then,” he concedes. “Don’t let it be said that I didn’t try. We started out sharing a flat – maybe we’ll end up sharing a cell.” He grins again, and John matches it, a hint of giddy adrenalin in his smile.

            “So – what’s the plan?”


	5. Chapter 5

            Sherlock sends John a mischievous and slightly predatory grin, and the doctor feels anticipation and adventure stirring in his chest. Springing to his feet, Sherlock dashes to the empty violin case by the coffee table, dropping it to the floor in front of John who watches his movements with restrained captivation.

            “First of all, the break-in,” he explains, flitting about the room to rummage in drawers and shelves, bringing odds and ends back to the violin case like a bird bringing twigs to a nest. “The security inside Appledore Tower is easy, I’ve got it all figured out. Cameras, motion sensors, and a few alarmed doors are the least of our worries.”

            “And once we’re in his office?” asks John.

            “I can crack the safe to get the physical articles, easy.”

            “But you said he’d have digital copies.”

            Sherlock’s answering grin is just a little bit manic. “Here –” He pulls the memory stick from his pocket, tossing it to John. _“Schrödinger’s Worm._ It’s a virus specifically designed by a very important contact of mine.”

            “Of what kind of legality?” John sends him a faintly amused look over the USB, and Sherlock smirks.

            “Oh, dubious at best,” he says gleefully. “The virus is unique, and incredibly smart. If I can infect Milverton’s computer with this, it’ll wipe out his entire system – all his databases, his files, his backups, _gone._ And it doesn’t leave a single trace.” He grins again, and John mirrors it, swept along in his premature triumph. “He won’t have stored anything in the cloud,” Sherlock continues, adding a small torch to the pile by the case, “too insecure for his tastes. But he’ll have external hard drives or memory sticks – probably quickest if we just take the lot.”

            “And?” John asks, as Sherlock retrieves his violin from its everyday case.

            “And destroy them somewhere between here and Hampstead Road,” he says easily, “that’s hardly a problem. We get out the way we came in, simple as anything. Now, masks…” He secures his violin and bow in the new case and fiddles with the blue velvet interior. “Balaclavas will impede eyesight and communication. We need –”

            “Have you got any black silk?” John interrupts. Sherlock’s hands still and he stares up at John’s open, innocent expression.

            “I have an old dressing gown,” he replies, deliberation and deduction slowing his words. “Why?”

           John takes a lot of pleasure in confusing the world’s only consulting detective. “I can make a couple of masks,” he says. “Eye-masks.”

           Sherlock’s expression turns to a strange combination of pride, bewildered curiosity, and mischief. “You’ve got something of a natural talent for this,” he says with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, returning to the violin case. “Alright then – you do the masks. There’s just one more thing…”

            “What’s that?” asks John, and in answer, Sherlock flips open the case again with a flourish.

            _“Voil_ _à_ _!”_

            Instead of showing the violin, Sherlock has released a false bottom in the case, revealing a sizeable compartment hidden below the instrument. John’s eyebrows shoot up.

            “Now that I wasn’t expecting,” he admits, staring. “Thought it was bit heavy. How long have you had this?”

            “Oh, years,” says Sherlock with a flippant wave of his hand, still crouched on the floor next to the case. “It was a birthday present from a friend in uni.”

            “A _what_ in uni?” John teases, but Sherlock refuses to rise to the bait.

            “We have a rendezvous to attend,” he says instead, looking up. “Andrew Thurgood.”

            “…Agreed to cooperate?” says John, remembering Sherlock’s cryptic words from earlier.

            “Oh yes.” The detective smirks in triumph. “Thurgood is a second violinist in the London Philharmonic. He crossed Milverton a long time ago – could have been a soloist, but one drunken email ruined him.”

            Realisation dawns on John. “That’s why you’ve been taking the violin all week,” he concludes tentatively. “You’ve been rehearsing with them, convincing him to…”

            “Give me a very special key card,” Sherlock finishes, packing his collection of goods into the lined compartment of the violin case. “Thurgood’s done a lot of freelance work in his career, particularly after his run in with Milverton, and not always in music. He still has ties to the company that runs part of the security on Appledore Tower – specifically, the locking systems on private access doors. Today, he finally agreed to give me a copy of the emergency, all-access card – a sort of master key.”

            “Which you’re getting tonight.”

            “Yes, at a concert. I’ll be filling in for the soloist – he’ll still be paid. I’ve been rehearsing with the orchestra all week waiting for Thurgood to agree, I know what I’m doing.” He frowns suddenly, and turns back to John. “Do you have a dinner jacket?”

            John frowns, pursing his lips. “No,” he says slowly. “Least, not one that looks any –”

            “Thought not,” Sherlock interrupts, waving away whatever John had been about to say. “Doesn’t matter, I had a suit tailored for you a few months ago in case something like this came up.”

            John gapes, trying to contemplate how Sherlock could have a suit made for him without actually requiring his presence. “I’m not even going to ask,” he sighs, shaking his head.

           “Probably for the best,” Sherlock mutters. John barely stops himself from kicking him.

           “So you’ve got one too?” he asks instead.

            “No no no – tails. White tie. I _am_ performing.”

            “Right.” John pauses, letting everything sink in as Sherlock stands and sweeps off to his bedroom. “So I’ll be sitting in the audience…” He nods. “Right.” He glances over his shoulder after his flatmate. “Fancy do, this?”

            “Apparently,” Sherlock calls from his room. “I think the royal family will be there, something about a birthday…” He reappears, a suit in a hangar folded over one arm. “I didn’t ask for details – irrelevant.” John gapes, mutely accepting the clothes. “Either way, we’re going, and you need to look as important as the rest of the apes that’ll be there.”

            John snorts cynically. “Of course,” he mutters.

            “Don’t worry, you’re more important than they’ll ever be,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly. “You just have an annoying habit of not flaunting it.”

            John stares at him as he swirls away, considering the possibility that he might be hallucinating.

           “Make those masks and get dressed, John,” Sherlock orders from the kitchen, ignorant of his shock. “We can’t waste any more time.”

 

            An hour later, John trundles down the stairs feeling like a complete fool. The suit fits perfectly, of course – after all, _Sherlock_ had it made – and is of the highest quality material. He’s never worn anything this expensive in his life, though, and there’s something about the combination of black trousers, black cummerbund, and _white jacket_ that makes him feel ostentatious.

            “You know, I’ve got a dress uniform,” he grumbles as he enters the sitting room. “I could’ve just worn that.”

            “No,” Sherlock calls from his room, “you’d stand out far too much. Everyone will be in black tie, only the most important military leaders will be in uniform, and you don’t want to associate with them, you’ll draw far too much attention to yourself.” He sweeps out of his room, tails flapping behind him with the same drama and enthusiasm as his usual coat. The suit is, like John’s, perfectly tailored, and Sherlock’s curls have been combed and aligned into something much neater than John is used to seeing. He is graceful, elegant, suave – not really all that different to how he is on a day-to-day basis, but here it is refined and perfected in the line of his trousers and the swirl of his tails. He looks, well – _dashing._ Next to Sherlock, John feels so incredibly ordinary that it almost hurts.

           Sherlock takes one glance at him and rolls his eyes, suppressing a sigh. “How exactly did you manage to mess up a perfectly simple bowtie?” he asks, marching right up to John and deftly undoing his tie. John doesn’t answer, looking away as Sherlock fixes whatever microscopic mistake he’s made – it had certainly looked fine to _him._

           A moment later, Sherlock finishes with a minor flourish and smoothes his hands over John’s lapels before taking a step back. His movements slow as he peers at John and begins to circle him, analysing his appearance with a disarming amount of scrutiny – and frowning: displeased.

           “Yeah, I know,” John mutters, “doesn’t suit me at all. But this was _your_ idea –”

            “Nonsense, you look perfect” Sherlock snaps, somehow making it sound like an insult. “But you’re too plain, too unassuming, too… _you.”_ John is simultaneously pleased, baffled and cautiously offended, but he says nothing, letting Sherlock continue with his examination. “Everyone there will be full of pomp,” he continues, ignoring John in favour of analysing his clothes – “displaying themselves, trying to stand out – if you don’t make any effort at all, you’ll stand out all the same. Which we don’t want, not at all…” He finishes another orbit around John, his frown deepening. “There has to be something…” he mutters absently. “Something different, something subtle, unique, something –” He pins John with a widened gaze. “You were in the military.”

            John’s resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Truly, you’re an observational genius.”

            “Then you’ll have medals!” Sherlock exclaims, ignoring the dig. “Service medal, campaign medal, something!”

            “Yeah,” John repeats slowly.

            “Brilliant, go and get them.”

            John is shocked into silence for a moment, before: _“No.”_

            “John, they’re _perfect,”_ Sherlock presses. “Not too flashy, but they make you look like a war hero, someone with distinction, someone important. Without it, you’re – boring and plain.” John glares at him in silence, and Sherlock sighs irritably. _“It’s what they’ll see,_ John.”

            “That doesn’t make it any nicer.”

            Sherlock makes a frustrated noise in his throat – he may as well be gripping at his hair. “Just _do as I say.”_

            _“I’m not wearing my medals,”_ John insists, resolute.

            “What are you so scared of? I’m not asking you to wear a Victoria Cross, just –” Sherlock stops at the guilty look on John’s face, his own impatience falling away. He falters somewhat, staring at John who looks away, glaring at the floor. “You don’t –” he starts carefully. _“Do_ you have a Victoria Cross?”

            _“No,”_ John scoffs, as if it should be obvious, glancing momentarily up at Sherlock. “I’ve got a –” But he stops, licking his lips, unable to go on.

            “What do you have, John?” Sherlock asks. His voice is almost soft. There’s a pause in which John fumbles about for an escape but finds none.

            “Conspicuous Gallantry Cross,” he mumbles to the carpet, blurting the words out to get them over and done with. He is afraid, for a moment, to look at Sherlock – afraid that he’ll find only the same blind admiration and false attempts at understanding that he’s seen before; but when he does look up, Sherlock is staring at him with something entirely new. It’s a look which implies that he is re-evaluating his entire image of John, all their experiences, in light of this new information. There’s pride in the look, and not a small amount of satisfaction. There’s reassurance, comfort, fear, anxiety; John finds himself oddly pleased by the reaction. Surprised, mostly – but definitely pleased.

            “You don’t like your decorations,” Sherlock deduces gently, which in itself is enough to surprise John all over again. “You think you don’t deserve them. You couldn’t save everyone – but you tried. That’s what you do, you’re a doctor, you save people – but all your efforts couldn’t save them all.”

            John is glaring at the floor again, laid bare before Sherlock’s insights but stubbornly unable to flee. “I don’t want to remember,” he mutters. “Not when I’m awake – not in public.”

            Sherlock bows his head in assent. “I won’t make you wear it,” he says, and John feels a heady rush of wordless gratitude. He nods once, short and sharp, his face blank and his eyes darting up to meet Sherlock’s for only a moment.

           “But what do we do to make you inconspicuously conspicuous?” Sherlock continues, returning quickly to the problem at hand and resuming his circling.

            John shrugs, not turning with him. “We could paint my tie yellow,” he deadpans. “That’d stand out.”

            “No no no,” Sherlock waves it away, “that’s far too eccentric, you’ll be thrown out.”

            John sighs and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I could be seen with _you,”_ he quips. “That tends to attract a bit of attention.”

            Sherlock halts abruptly before him, eyes widening and fingers steepling before his mouth. His gaze, suddenly fascinated, latches onto John. “Homosexuality _is_ still accepted only hesitantly by some, especially the more conservative members of higher society,” he says thoughtfully.

           John startles. “I didn’t mean like _that!”_

            “Those hiding their homophobia will be forced to acknowledge you,” Sherlock continues, as if he hasn’t heard him, “and those accepting of it would be congratulating of your openness, even if it does come off as a little performative.”

            “Sherlock, for God’s sake, I didn’t mean –”

            “Perfect,” he decides, dropping his hands. “When we arrive, I’ll take you to the lobby, we’ll get some champagne and I’ll kiss you.”

            “Sherlock –”

            “We’ll make sure to be somewhere obvious so we don’t go unseen –”

            _“Sherlock –”_

            “– people will notice, _maybe_ ask, but they’ll definitely talk about you, and that’s all we really need –”

            “SHERLOCK!”

            “Come on, John, it’s perfect!”

             John stares, open-mouthed. _“How_ – exactly – is it perfect?!”

           Sherlock huffs an irritable breath. “It gains you the right kind of attention to be noticed,” he explains, “but it keeps you enigmatic, it keeps you distant, it keeps you _safe.”_ John says nothing. “It’s this or the medals.”

           The doctor stares for a moment longer before shutting his eyes and sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine” he says irritably – _“fine._ But if this gets back to the Yard –” he pauses, looking for the right threat – “I’m taking your violin away.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, glaring at him distrustfully. “Deal?” says John.

_“Deal.”_  


	6. Chapter 6

            The lobby of the concert hall is packed with important-looking people, leaving John feeling completely out-of-place and Sherlock looking (as always) in his element. When they’re asked for invitations, Sherlock produces a gilded envelope from an inside pocket, and when the usher requests another, Sherlock glares condescendingly down his nose and tilts his violin case. John suspects that it’s Sherlock’s frighteningly-honed intimidation techniques, rather than the instrument, that convince the man; he isn’t quite sure whether or not he approves. They’re let through the velvet rope, and Sherlock immediately takes John’s hand, threading their fingers together and leading him over to the bar. He takes a glass of champagne and sips from it, handing it to John. As the doctor drinks, Sherlock leans down to his ear.

            “Do try to make this look realistic,” he murmurs. From the timbre of his voice, anyone would have guessed he was whispering dirty promises, and John almost blushes before realising the implication of Sherlock’s words. He’s about to protest, eyes wide, when Sherlock pulls away from his ear and seals their lips together.

            For a split-second, John stiffens in shock, fighting the urge to push Sherlock away – then he remembers Sherlock’s words and forces himself to relax and enjoy the (admittedly quite pleasant) sensation of being kissed by Sherlock Holmes. He raises the champagne in his left hand, resting it back on the bar, and closes his eyes, bringing his free hand up to hold Sherlock’s neck. It feels strange, kissing someone so much taller than him – craning his neck and feeling a strong, thin-fingered hand sliding around his waist – but when Sherlock pushes a bit more forcefully against his mouth, he does what he always does with the consulting detective and relents, letting him in. He can hear a low murmur of gossip growing up around them, and feels the well-dressed young woman behind him stepping deftly away, her heels clicking rapidly in escape.

            All of a sudden, the heat of Sherlock’s mouth is gone, and he almost turns and stalks off, his hand slipping from John’s waist. With an almost panicked motion, John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s neck, stopping him from running away.

            “That’s not exactly realistic,” he breathes. Sherlock looks at him blankly for a moment before something in his expression softens in understanding. He raises his hand, trailing the back of one finger along John’s jaw. The movement – so painfully out-of-character for his friend – almost makes John burst into laughter; but he suppresses the urge, however ridiculous it is that he was just _kissing Sherlock Holmes._

            “Better,” he mutters, holding back a smirk and letting his hand fall to Sherlock’s shoulder. The entire ordeal is a lot easier than expected, though Sherlock’s starting to make him wonder how much experience he’s actually had with intimate moments like this. He taps his thumb against Sherlock’s lapel, gaining control of his face, then lets his hand drop, hiding a beatific smile behind their champagne. Sherlock grins once, a fleeting, somewhat fond expression, and turns away, sweeping off to the Stage Door and leaving John alone in a sea of not-so-surreptitious glances.

            It is now that the nerves begin to take effect. John slinks away to stand to one side, trying to blend into the wall, and he can’t stop his eyes darting about, taking everything in. His hand isn’t shaking at all. No one approaches him, though, and it seems that Sherlock’s plan has worked perfectly: he has gained enough attention to be noticeable, but not so much as to have his presence questioned.

            An announcement is made over the speakers informing the guests that the performance will commence in fifteen minutes. John sips at his champagne and pulls the ticket Sherlock gave him from an inside pocket, checking his seat number.

_Door 4. Row C. Seat 14._

            John is surprised to find himself so well seated: three rows back from the stage and just to the right of centre. He’s never been to a concert like this – neither he nor his parents were ever greatly interested in classical music, though Sherlock’s been endeavouring to change his opinion. He has no idea what to expect.

            He’s just beginning to contemplate why he couldn’t have simply met Sherlock after the concert, when someone steps into the space before him, quite obviously intent on conversation. The woman is slightly younger than middle-age, smartly dressed, and John can’t help but be reminded of ‘Anthea’ in the way that she holds herself with confidence and purpose, comfortable in her position and in the presence of a BlackBerry. She is slightly taller than John in her heels, and her dark hair is half-pulled back, stylish but efficient.

            “What’s your name?” she asks kindly, as if asking a lost child if he knows where his mummy is.

            “Watson,” John answers flatly. “John Watson.”

            A minute frown appears between the woman’s eyebrows. “My name’s Surabhi,” she says without invitation. “I’m a part of the delegation for the royal family. The Queen will be here soon, you know,” she adds lightly, though her gaze implies that there is nothing at all light about this conversation.

            “I did think that was the point of the evening.” His tone is conversational, but he seeks refuge behind his champagne when Surabhi frowns again.

            “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of you,” she all but blurts, as if this fact is deeply unsettling. “Who are you?”

            “John Watson,” he repeats, huffing a tiny laugh at the way she inclines her head in disapproval – she almost reminds him of Mycroft. “My… partner’s with the orchestra,” he adds.

            “Yes, I saw that,” Surabhi replies, her gaze turning cryptic and assessing. There is silence for a moment, in which John contemplates the necessity of his presence at the concert and decides that he’s kind of enjoying himself anyway. He gives a short, close-mouthed smile in which he purposely hides a challenge.

            Without another word, the woman turns and disappears into the crowd. John refuses to let himself sag with relief, taking another swig of champagne instead. A minute later, he is informed by insistent electronic chimes that the concert will commence in ten minutes, and he drains the last drops from his glass – no point in wasting free champagne, he figures – and sets off, craning his neck for directional signs. The hall is packed and the stage empty, the sound of shuffling feet filtering through the chatter of important people. John takes his seat between an old woman in pearls and a peach-coloured dress, and a weathered, middle-aged man in formal military uniform sporting a chestful of medals which look more pompous than honourable, and who leans over immediately after John sits down to strike up a conversation. It is short and stilted – the man is elated to meet a fellow soldier, but seems almost disappointed to learn that John spent more time in the Medical Corps than as part of an actual attacking force. When the man asks about any decorations he might have received, John replies that he’d rather not talk about it, and turns away.

            Moments later, the orchestra files onto the stage and tunes, three efficient bursts of tonal cacophony silencing the audience. The conductor walks out and applause fills the hall as he shakes hands with the violinist at the front and mounts the podium. John murmurs along to _God Save the Queen,_ then the audience settles and the concert begins. It is – at least to John’s untrained ear – very good. Sitting so close to the stage, the sound is dominated by the strings, and John realises why the royal family is seated in a box rather than the oft-coveted first row.

            Now and then during the symphonies and movements of which John knows neither title nor composer, he recognises snatches of tunes that he’s heard Sherlock play before – here, a three-bar passage which was played almost non-stop for two days as Sherlock thought through a particularly masterful theft; there, a swift series of notes which he’s heard both slowed down and sped up, played when Sherlock is pleased, either with the quality of his pad siew or the outcome of a quick but challenging case. John’s mind begins to wander as he watches the swing of the violins’ bows. He remembers the times Sherlock has played – annoying Mycroft with a swing of harsh arpeggios; sawing his way across seemingly random notes as he vents his frustration during a stagnant investigation; playing John to sleep after they’ve both spent three days on little food and even less sleep, and his own body is defying his exhaustion. One memorable evening, they had both been sitting quietly together in the living room, absorbed in their own thoughts, when Sherlock had raised his bow and begun a series of improvised movements which left John feeling inexplicably contented.

            All of a sudden, an hour has passed, and the conductor and orchestra are bowing as the audience applauds enthusiastically. During the interval, John resumes his position at the edge of the lobby, though this time without the distraction of champagne. He sees Surabhi hovering at the edge of the crowd milling about the royal party, and he’s almost certain he catches a glimpse of ‘Anthea’. He decides that it’s best not to think about why Mycroft’s assistant is here surveying either him or the royal family (or possibly both). Eventually, the harsh, artificial bell chimes once more to signal the second half, and John returns to his seat, ignoring the glances sent his way by the man on his right and graciously slipping out of small talk with the old woman to watch the stage. The placement of the orchestra has shifted slightly to accommodate a grand piano.

            This time, after the orchestra files in, the conductor is accompanied by Sherlock and an older, foreign-looking woman – the pianist – behind whose seat Sherlock takes his place, his spine imperiously straight. He tucks his violin beneath his chin and perfunctorily tests his bowing, then nods to the conductor, settling in his stance. In the stillness between the first rise and fall of bows, bells and batons, Sherlock catches John’s eye. There is stern confirmation in the glance, accompanied by the most infinitesimal of nods, and John knows that Sherlock has what they came for; all that’s left is to enjoy the second half.

            And it certainly is enjoyable. A violin concerto: the music starts smoothly, Sherlock’s violin singing alone into the grand silence of the hall. It is happy, excited, the melody dancing off the strings – but there is something in the quality of the lone instrument, standing before an entire, silent orchestra, which sounds somehow thin; not lonely – not quite – but desolately, needlessly alone. After a short while, the pianist lifts her spidery hands, holding them above the keys for another few bars before pressing down, her own tune joining Sherlock’s with a kind of insidious innocence. It’s not long before the violin realises what’s happening and begins to resist, actively trying to circumvent a harmony – but then the orchestra comes in, bit by bit, and the melody begins to swell. The violin darts between the other instruments, every time coming to the fore and every time being blocked at the last by the piano’s insistent notes. Almost by accident, it seems, Sherlock falls into her harmony (quite literally _falls back_ a step, as if staggering) – and, moments later, he _soars._ The notes of the leaders leap up to the ceiling, the orchestra following on their heels, and the music seems to burst. It is elated, now, racing and exhilarated, as the soloists lead it through a glorious climax. The music fills the hall, thrilling it with energy, bright and beaming and full, enough to send the blood singing before it slips, almost imperceptibly, into the denouement; gradual, but no less joyous in its calm. As the trumpeters put down their instruments and the horns build up a rich, warm undertone, supported by the bassoons, the soloists fall back into a contented harmony. John thinks he’s hardly ever heard Sherlock play so sweetly, and he wonders if his flatmate resents the necessity. Finally, the melody ends, the violin and piano resting as the strings and woodwinds bring the music to its close, fading out into a soft, clear, quiet note – and then into silence.

            Sherlock and the pianist shift; the conductor turns a page. There is a flurry of coughs and sniffles as the audience gets them out of the way before the next movement. ~~~~

            They needn’t have bothered. The conductor sweeps up his baton, and the pianist draws a sharp breath, and it’s obvious that the next movement will be a harsher one. Indeed, the piano quickly brings the music rushing back in, leading the orchestra in a reeling crescendo. Sherlock raises his instrument to his shoulder, settling his chin in place, and John feels a thrill of anticipation, waiting for the violin to join the insistent swell of music.

            He is sorely disappointed.

            The violin’s first note is contrary and sharp, slashing through the frenzied harmonies of the rest of the orchestra. It strikes at the music with all the acidity of Sherlock’s cruel tongue, bow flashing between every fissure and pressing at the others’ weaknesses. In no time at all, the music is disintegrating, the orchestra breaking into factions: section against section, soloist against soloist, and every combination of the same. The hurrying, harrying tones fall apart, prompted by the violin’s interruptions: cutting off the horns by joining the strafing of the flutes, only to dart across and bolster the violas against the combined forces of the double basses and piano. It urges on first one group then the next, spurring the music into a frenetic turmoil, a dangerous mix which lurches occasionally into strained bouts of suspense before tumbling back into action. The music is thrown toward its climax, tripping over itself in its splintered rush, the soloists flitting between harmonies, always audible even over the rattle of cymbals and the blasts of the contrabassoon. As the violin pauses to breathe, the piano takes over, crashing against the entire strings section, bolstered by the oboes but hampered by the trombones’ insistent attacks. With the piano’s wild crescendos, the music races to its peak, the almighty culmination of all the violence that has come before. Sherlock raises his bow, and the entire audience seems to hold its breath for his contribution to the manic rise of the percussionists against the brass, when –

_SCREECH!_

            With a long, high _shriek_ of sound, the violin cuts off everyone else. Silence descends; not the shuffling, awkward silence of the first break, the audience and instruments eager to be off again, no – this is something entirely different. The conductor hardly lowers his baton, and the audience is silent, spellbound with anticipation and dread. At the front of the stage, Sherlock stands, his muscles straining with impatience, almost trembling against the weight of the unfinished note. His bow is held aloft, waiting to fall. He holds his breath, and the entire hall holds it with him, orchestra and audience alike rapt and burning, urging him, _begging_ him to go on.

            With another almighty _screech,_ he does, picking up the same note on which he’d left the last movement, piercing the silence of the hall.

            The note stops; no one dares to breathe.

            Again, the violin squeals, stuttering once, twice, then drawing out again, that same, mournful, agonising note.

            The bow hovers in the air, and John almost thinks he can see Sherlock’s pulse racing in his throat.

            A third time, the violin picks up the note, the strings shrieking up to the ceiling, frightened, breathless and alone. This time, it cracks, faltering and skittering down the scales in a rapid string of staccatos, snapping off on a low, broken tone. In the silence that follows, the piano attempts consolation, rumbling in agreement, just as mournful but not half as mad. The violin ignores it, rattling through the scales again in a wild, directionless frenzy. The piano resumes its cheerless melody, punctuated by Sherlock’s scattered notes, constantly interrupting any attempt at coherence. Finally, though, the cellos begin to moan and the woodwinds to lament, and the violin can no longer stop their return to song. Its rattled exhortations start to break, and the music turns to melancholy, low and mournful, led by the piano’s sorrowing tones. The strings take up a slow, soaring harmony, through which the solo violin tries to rejoin the chorus; its attempts, however, are for naught. Despite the violin’s emulations, its own cries are always at least half a step behind the rest, its grief out of sync with the other violins. The howling notes cannot keep pace, cannot hold for as long, and as the rest of the orchestra swells with mourning, the lone violin seems to fall further and further behind, breaking off at odd moments and coming in three bars behind, skipping ahead to catch up, then stuttering and stumbling into silence. The attempts to follow become increasingly haphazard, notes cutting off with anguished squeals and stumbling upswings, and as the violin approaches a climax all of its own, the orchestra dims, quieting and calming. The horns and lower strings begin to sob, long, low throbs of sound behind which the woodwinds hum a soft, morose melody. The piano leads them, simultaneously raising their grief and anchoring that of the violin, which surges and builds and shatters occasionally, no longer bothering with any semblance of concurrent distress. As the orchestra fades into a background thrumming, the piano’s melody deepens, swelling up, like unbidden tears, low and miserable and sounding something like pure sorrow.

            And in between the notes, the violin screams.

            For screaming is the only possible appropriation for the sounds that Sherlock creates. The violin comes to the fore, wailing and splintering, very occasionally screeching, and John wants to simultaneously memorise every note and clap his hands over his ears. It is torture given voice – broken and wretched, shrieking its way across the octaves and abandoning any pretence of lucidity. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, his feet planted firmly a shoulder’s width apart, long legs tense with the effort of holding himself in place. His arm swings with the bow, and while his head and neck must remain still to hold the violin, the muscles shudder beneath his skin, their tautness speaking perhaps even more clearly than if he were free to move. The orchestra fades into silence, and the piano soon follows, forsaking its harmony as a lost cause, and the violin is left alone; and where before the music spoke of rage and loss, now it sings only of agony. The violin darts along the scales, skipping notes and forgoing entire sections of arpeggios, alternating between furious, almost possessed staccatos and long, excruciating saws of sound. Its anguish builds to the high shrieks that began the movement, and when it finally hits that awful note, it can do nothing but break, the bow glancing off the strings. It tries again, a drawn-out scream, but cannot hold for long. Two more stuttered attempts at the call, the stillness behind them echoing with the violin’s pain; until, with one last, lingering pull, Sherlock manages to hold the note, dragging the bow towards his body and then pushing it away, throwing the music off with a final, impossible upswing. The last, squealing note hovers in the air: the silence rings with it – with grief and pain and the trembling hairs of Sherlock’s frayed, abused bow, held up as if in anticipation of a note that will never fall – and then he seems to collapse. The violin slips out from under his chin, and both arms fall to his sides. He looks exhausted, drawn and beaten, and he hasn’t yet opened his eyes. As the applause breaks out – hesitant at first, then fervent and deafening – Sherlock blinks, and John thinks he sees tears fall from his lashes. For a moment, he is blind to the world; then he comes to his senses, and his eyes seek out John, focusing on him with an unforeseen intensity as he bows. When he straightens, he has regained his composure, and he steps aside as the pianist rises. John doesn’t even look at her, focusing instead on the detached way in which Sherlock transfers his bow to his left hand and wipes beneath his eyes with base of his thumb, swallowing.

            The pianist bows, followed by the conductor, who then motions for Sherlock to bow once more. A round of handshakes is exchanged between the soloists, concertmaster and conductor. All the while, applause fills the space left by the music, punctuated by the occasional whistle or shout of appreciation. The orchestra rises and bows, and Sherlock, the pianist, and the conductor exit then reappear, and the entire bowing sequence begins over – Sherlock, pianist, conductor; orchestra, section by section – strings, woodwinds, brass. By the time the percussionists are standing, John’s hands have grown numb from clapping, and through the harpist’s bow, he wants little more than to leave and see Sherlock up close.

            Once more, the soloists and conductor exit and re-enter, and bow, followed by the orchestra, followed by their final walk from the stage as the house lights swell into life. Sherlock exchanges one final glance with John as he sweeps off, and John stands and shuffles down the row. He doesn’t spare any attention for the lobby as he hurries through, ignoring the probably-important elbows between which he shoulders in his bid for the exit and the Stage Door.

            Sherlock is already waiting for him. He’s still in his tails, and is just zipping up his violin case as John approaches. Before he can utter a word, Sherlock hefts his violin in one hand and grips John’s upper arm with the other, steering him away from the Stage Door and out onto the wet street. His hand doesn’t leave John’s arm as he scans the traffic for a cab, and though his face is as blank as ever, his eyes still seem a little wet, and his hand on John’s arm is unnervingly tight. For a moment, John wants to snap and tug his arm out of Sherlock’s painful grasp, annoyed and confused at the treatment – but it doesn’t take him long to piece it together.

            John glances once at Sherlock’s face, at the hand on his arm, then turns resolutely to face the traffic. Not looking away from the street, he brings his left hand up, covering Sherlock’s fingers with his palm. Sherlock’s hand tightens into a claw, and his breath stutters through an exhale.

            It’s the music, John concludes; music that pushed Sherlock beyond words and logic and into the emotions that he so despises.

            Keeping his expression neutral, John taps one blunt fingertip against Sherlock’s thumb and drops his hand, his fingers flexing just once at his side. Sherlock’s grip relaxes, loses its intensity, and he lowers his gaze to one side, not quite looking at where his hand still rests on John’s arm. With another breath, the last of the tension in his face and shoulders smoothes itself out, and he blinks away the lingering moisture in his eyes. His hand slips from John’s arm, and the doctor nods once, glancing up at Sherlock for half a moment before clearing his throat and pursing his lips as he looks off to the side.

            “No use lingering here,” says Sherlock brusquely. His voice is hoarse. Without looking at John, he stalks into a gap in the traffic, his strides long and swift.

            John heaves a fortifying breath and jogs to catch up.


	7. Chapter 7

            “We’ll be approaching Appledore Tower from the side,” says Sherlock once they’ve reached the warmth of a cab. The rain has stopped, but the wind still wails occasionally, and it’s bitterly cold. “According to Agatha, the motion sensors are turned on at eleven – fifteen minutes from now – but I know a path between them, so they won’t bother us. I also know – through dear Agatha, again, quite surprising what a cleaning lady picks up – that the entire camera system is operated from the third floor Security Desk.”

            “So I take it we’ll be making a bit of a detour on the way to Milverton’s office,” says John. Sherlock glances at him, approval in his eye.

            “Just a slight one,” he quips.

            “I assume taking the lift is out of the question?”

            “It’s almost as if we were meant to be criminals, isn’t it?” says Sherlock, mischief in his eyes. “Yes, the lifts might be a _little_ obvious – and luckily for us, the emergency stairs are entirely unmonitored. Alarmed, of course, but I can get through that easily enough. I’ve had a lot of time for reconnaissance.”

            “Walks with _dear Agatha?”_ John deadpans.

            “Too many to count,” Sherlock mutters, with just a hint of distaste. “But this shouldn’t be too difficult – I’ve planned everything out, it should all go very smoothly from here on in.”

            “Should,” John repeats dryly. “And if it doesn’t?”

            Sherlock turns to him, smiling unnervingly. “There’s a reason you tucked your gun into your trousers,” he says. John stares at him, straight-faced but for his tightening mouth, then sighs through his nose and turns away, silent; he thought he’d been discreet. Sherlock’s smile broadens, but he says nothing, lifting his violin case onto his knees and opening it to reveal the innocent clash of blue velvet and brown wood. He smoothes his fingers over the instrument before fiddling again with the hidden catches to release the false bottom. Watching him from the corner of his eye, John notes the slight tremble in his fingers – not enough to interfere with his fiddling, but enough to nudge the doctor from ‘slightly wary’ to ‘alert’. He purses his lips and keeps his eyes firmly on the back of the seat in front of him.

           “You’ve dealt with this bloke before, haven’t you?”

            Sherlock doesn’t look up from where he’s arranging his tools beneath the violin. “Hm?”

            “Milverton,” John clarifies. He glances over. “You knew who he was when Eva mentioned his name – and you weren’t exactly confident meeting with him. You knew him before, right?”

            Sherlock sighs tightly. “I knew _of_ him,” he says, focusing on the violin case. “He was indirectly involved in a case of mine, a long time ago – I didn’t have the chance to stop him. But everyone in the criminal world knows who he is, it’s hardly a surprise that I should. Even the Yard probably has a file on him somewhere.”

            “He’s not what you’re used to, though, is he?” says John, quiet but firm. Sherlock’s hands still on the blue velvet. “You stared down Moriarty, but you barely handled him.”

            Sherlock’s expression has gone stony. “He knows what he’s doing,” he says to his tools. “My line of work is deduction, investigation, knowing things that others don’t – not needless bureaucracy and negotiation.”

            “Didn’t think it’d go quite that badly, though, did you?” John quips with a straight face. Sherlock meets his eye, but doesn’t answer. As he turns back to the violin case, checking the latches once more and zipping it shut, John takes a deep breath.

           “We’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than to Sherlock. Nonetheless, he sees Sherlock rest his hands on top of the violin case and feels a small glow of pride: they’re not shaking anymore.

 

            The cab stops, not on Hampstead Road, but by a construction site two streets away. Sherlock gives the driver a generous tip and a significant look, then clambers out of the car, leading with the violin case. John shuffles out next to him and inspects the boarded fence before them as the cab pulls away into the night.

            “Going through there, are we?” he says, sucking his teeth in contemplation. Sherlock nods.

            “It’s mostly unguarded,” he explains, “and it’s the most discreet way of approaching the back of the service lane.”

            “And why do we need to approach the back of the service lane?” John asks as Sherlock places the violin case on the ground and steps forward, inspecting the boards before them.

            “Because it’s monitored by a single security camera,” he mumbles absently, tapping at a board with his knuckles. “We approach from behind, dismantle it – problem solved, and we get in unseen.” He steps back and narrows his eyes in the darkness.

            John frowns. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

            “Yes,” Sherlock mutters, stepping forward again and rapping at a different board, his leather gloves muffling the sound. “Aha!” Insinuating his fingertips in the gaps between the boards, Sherlock eases one panel away from the rest, exposing a chain-link fence. He sets aside the board and, without even glancing at John, starts to climb. Once he’s reached the top and swung himself over, he reaches out for the violin case, already held at the ready by the waiting John. As Sherlock hefts the case over, John pulls himself up onto the fence.

            “Pull the board back in place,” Sherlock instructs, almost face-to-face with John through the wire. As Sherlock drops to the ground, John manoeuvres himself about, tugging the board after him until it’s almost flush with the rest. He swings his legs over the top of the fence, nudges the board one last time, then half-climbs and half-drops down to the mud and dust below.

            “Won’t we be leaving a few footprints?” he hisses, joining Sherlock crouched over the violin case.

            “Scratch them out behind us,” Sherlock replies in a low voice, rummaging about in the compartment under the instrument. “We’ll do the same on the way back. Now –” He looks up, shutting the case and holding out a hand. “Masks on.”

            John peers through the shadows at the two pieces of silk dangling from Sherlock’s fingers. He picks one out, places it over his eyes, and ducks his head, pulling the hanging ends over his ears and tying them at the base of his skull. The masks are shaped to cover most of their foreheads and noses, but not bunch up around the eyes, and are able to conceal a large part of their cheeks. When John looks up, Sherlock is staring, his mask still in his hand.

            “What?” John frowns.

            “Nothing,” says Sherlock quickly. “It’s just – quite good.”

            “Oh ye of little faith,” John deadpans, snatching Sherlock’s mask from his fingers. “Here, let me.”

            Sherlock leans forward, letting John reach over to tie the silk carefully amidst his messy curls. He adjusts the front of the mask, then catches John’s eye, smiling.

            “Let’s go.”

            Sherlock leads the way in a twisting, turning path through the construction site, darting between huge stacks of wooden beams and concrete, doubling back around portaloos and terrapin offices, and running, half-crouched, along roughshod alleys and between the skeletons of buildings, all steel supports and exposed wires. The ground beneath their feet is mostly concrete covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, the rain and moonlight turning it into a muddy, colourless sludge. Every so often, particularly when they stop to catch their breath behind a dormant forklift or other, John scurries over their tracks, scuffing at them with his leather shoes, no longer quite as shiny as when the night began.

            Ten minutes of construction site scrambling is followed by another haul over a boarded-up fence, and one of Sherlock’s patented dashes down alleys and over a fire escape and private balcony. They end up on a drab little path between the street and an office courtyard, crouched in the shadows under a grey brick wall over two metres high, the glass hulk of Appledore Tower looming above them.

            “The service entrance,” Sherlock whispers, scanning the top of the wall. He points to the light grey curve of a camera – a small, compact thing just visible in the corner opposite, facing Milverton’s building. “That’s the only camera. I should be able to dismantle the wiring easily enough, then we’ll double-back to the construction site and go around to Hampstead Road, approaching Appledore Tower from the north.”

            “Can’t we just climb this wall instead?” asks John as the detective bends over the violin case once more.

            “Would you rather try to scale that monstrosity, or just go around and walk through the gate?” he replies, pulling out a torch and screwdriver and tucking them into his trouser pockets as he stands. “Now come on – give me a boost.”

            John rolls his eyes and grumbles, but approaches the wall nonetheless, facing Sherlock and bending down to make a stirrup with his hands. Sherlock settles his left foot in place, his hands on John’s shoulders.

            “On three,” he mutters. “One – two – _three!”_

            With a heave, John pushes himself upright at the same time as Sherlock lifts into John’s grip. He staggers back a step, and Sherlock steadies himself with a knee on John’s left shoulder, causing him to swear in an explosion of whispered expletives.

            “Weight to your left, Sherlock,” he hisses through gritted teeth, _“weight to your left!”_

            Sherlock’s knee disappears and the edge of his shoe digs into John’s palm as he complies, his right leg scrabbling against the wall for a foothold. A sigh of relief wrenches itself from John’s lungs as Sherlock balances his weight between doctor and wall, and he turns his face away, leaning his forehead on Sherlock’s thigh and panting slightly.

            “Sorry,” Sherlock whispers above him with a grimace. “War wound. Forgot.”

            John scowls, fighting the urge to shout at him, or at least drop him on his arse. He tightens his mouth and shifts his grip on Sherlock’s foot, pulling him up and cradling his ankle so Sherlock can half-kneel on his right shoulder. He focuses on keeping his own weight centred under Sherlock’s as the detective switches on the torch, holding it in his mouth and pulling out the screwdriver. The occasional sounds drift down to John – small, plastic clatters and scrapes, and the occasional slurp of pooling drool. After a few minutes, Sherlock lets out a frustrated grunt and slams his fist into the top of the wall. He takes the torch from between his teeth and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist.

            “It’s no good,” he whispers. “I can’t see properly, and the wiring’s too complicated. Let me down.”

            Sherlock pulls away from the wall and manoeuvres himself until his weight rests once more over one leg, his foot in the stirrup of John’s hands. He leans his hands on John’s shoulders, screwdriver alarmingly close to the doctor’s face, and hops back down to solid ground, shaking his head as he regains his breath.

            “We’ll have to find another way,” he says. “I have wire-cutters, but getting to the actual _wires_ will be hard enough.”

            John’s glances up at the glimpse he has of the camera. It seems to be on a hinge. He narrows his eyes. “Let me up?”

            Sherlock frowns. “What?”

            “Let me up, let me have a go,” says John, meeting his eye and jerking his head up at the wall.

            “John, no offence, but I have significantly more experience with wiring than you,” says Sherlock, in a voice that oozes offence. John levels him with a glare.

            “Just let me up, will you?”

            He unbuttons his jacket, and, a moment of shuffling and heaving later, is leaning his elbows on top of the wall, his right foot in Sherlock’s hands and the other on his hip, the detective’s cheekbone digging into his leg.

            “Bit closer,” he orders, and Sherlock shuffles back a step. John glances down at him. “Need to get up a bit, hang on –” Sherlock grumbles, and John hoists his left knee onto Sherlock’s shoulder, levering himself up another few centimetres. “Perfect. Okay, let’s see…”

            Plastic creaks and wires strain as John fiddles with the camera, inspecting the joints connecting it to the wall and the hinge allowing it to move. Sherlock mutters that John’s crotch is hardly what he had planned for the night, and John retorts that he’d hadn’t been expecting a high-stakes break-in, but what could they do? He adjusts his knee on Sherlock’s shoulder and steadies himself on the wall, twisting the camera and testing the hinge.

            “Can’t help but wonder what they’ll think when they review the footage…” Sherlock mumbles into John’s hip. “Are you _done_ up there?”

            “Nearly,” John mutters, his concentration still on the camera, holding it upright and testing the resistance of the hinge with his palm. “Brace yourself, you might feel the impact down there.”

            “Impact?” Sherlock extracts his face from John’s cummerbund and tilts his head back to get a good view of the doctor’s antics. “John, I hope you’re not intending to try to _break_ that. It’s on a very sturdy hinge, secured to the wall, it’s hardly going to just –”

            With a loud _crack_ and a clatter of broken plastic and metal, John slams the heel of his palm into the base of the machine, snapping the hinge and leaving the camera dangling lens-down by the wires in the corner of the alley.

            “Right, that should do it,” says John, business-like, as if he snaps security camera hinges on a regular basis. “We could cut the wires to take it out completely, but as it is, we won’t be caught unless we stand right under it. Which I’m guessing is unlikely. Let me down?”

            Another moment of shuffling and swinging, and John lands with a huff and a short grunt. He wipes his hands together; Sherlock is staring at him.

            “You –”

            John glances up from brushing the dust from his trousers. “What?”

            Sherlock stares a moment longer, shock and little bit of wonder in his pale face, stark against the surrounding shadows. “Where did you learn to do that?” he finally asks. John shrugs.

            “It’s just like popping in a dislocated shoulder, it’s hardly rocket science,” he says, plucking Sherlock’s screwdriver and torch from the ground to return them to the violin case.

            Sherlock turns and cranes his neck to look at the mess of wires and shards of plastic that used to be a steady camera. “Personally I’d have thought it was more like snapping someone’s neck,” he says absently, “but that’ll do.”

            “Well sure, if you want to be morbid about it,” says John, quirking his brow and handing the case back to Sherlock. “Come on. I want to do as much illegal stuff in as short a time as possible, got it?”

 

           According to plan, Sherlock leads them back, over balconies and between bursting skips, to the construction site. They mount the fence, then cut across in a different direction, John once more covering their tracks, until they find themselves ducking through a hole in the fencing and jumping over a waist-high security gate near the site’s official entrance on Drummond Street. A few more minutes and a brisk walk around the corner brings them back to Appledore Tower and the high, chain-link gate to the service entrance. The downed security camera is just visible in the light from the street, dangling in the corner, its wires straining.

            “Keep an eye out,” says Sherlock as he bends down in front of the padlock, flipping open the violin case.

            John crosses his arms over his chest and turns his back to the gate, high-nosed and alert. “Got a hairpin in there too, have you?” he quips.

            “Not quite,” Sherlock mutters, elbow-deep in blue velvet. A high, muffled rattle sounds near John’s feet and his head whips around.

            “You’re _kidding.”_

            “Nope,” says Sherlock, opening up a small bundle of leather and picking out a few choice lockpicks. “What, did you think I wouldn’t know how to _pick a lock?”_ He makes a face which implies that he doesn’t even deem the matter worth the energy of rolling his eyes.“Anyway, this one’s ancient,” he continues – _“easy._ Milverton’s got so many eyes focused on the front door, he’s forgotten all about this one. _He_ never uses it, after all.” His mouth barely moves as he works, focused on his fiddling.

            “Just thought you might’ve liked to tell me we had a bunch of lockpicks sitting around the flat,” says John, glaring down at the top of Sherlock’s head.

            “They’re hardly _illegal,_ John,” Sherlock murmurs. “I’m a _detective._ I have to know my way around a lock, or how else will I know how the culprit got in?” The padlock clicks open, and he throws a false, satisfied smile up at John.

            “Got any other mildly illegal possessions I should know about?” John asks as Sherlock straightens and pulls away the padlock. The reply is accompanied by a mischievous glance.

           “Like your handgun?”

           John says nothing, turning his face to the street to hide his smile.

           Despite the traffic still rushing past on Euston Road, the night is still, and the rattle of the chain as Sherlock tugs at it seems alarmingly loud. The gate, however, opens on well-oiled hinges with barely a squeak. John gathers up the violin and slips inside, followed by Sherlock, who closes the gate behind them, slipping the chain back on and locking them in.

            Wordlessly, they sidle past the limousine and up to a heavy steel door with a handle but no keyhole, and a small number pad to one side. Sherlock stands before the console and gestures to John for the violin case, which he holds open, glancing between the detective and the end of the lane. Sherlock drops the lockpicks into the compartment and pulls out first a screwdriver and wire cutters, which he pockets, then a torch and a plain white key card, marred only by the bold black line of the magnetic stripe. Switching on the torch, he scrutinises the number pad, the key card turning over and over between the fingers of his right hand.

            “The ground floor guards are stationed in the lobby,” he murmurs, not looking up. “When we get in, keep as close to the door as you can to stay out of range of the camera. The emergency stairwell door is immediately on your right. I’ll disable the alarm. Keep your back to the wall and your head down and we shouldn’t be seen.”

            John’s mouth tightens, but his breath is calm and his hand steady. Sherlock finally looks up at him, and he nods, just once.

            “If we’re caught –” Sherlock starts.

            “We won’t be.”

            _“If we’re caught –”_ the detective insists, voice low enough to growl – “the PIN to exit the service door is zero-five-six-three-eight. Got that?”

            “Oh-five-six-three-eight, got it,” John nods.

            “Scale the fence we just came through and turn _left_ to avoid the cameras,” Sherlock continues, turning his gaze back to the little console. “Take the first alley on your left, _before_ Drummond Street, keep your face covered, and it should lead you more or less back to the construction site. Pick a direction and stick with it until you reach the outer fence, then make your way home in as roundabout a route as possible. Cut through Regent’s Park if you can. Destroy the mask, hide your clothes, and go straight to bed.”

            “And you?”

            Sherlock seems taken aback by the question, glancing up and pausing a moment before answering. “I know the way.”

            “I’m not leaving you behind Sherlock,” says John, in a tone that brooks no argument. Sherlock watches him for a moment; the corner of his mouth turns up just barely.

            “Well then let’s hope I can keep up.”

            John nods once more, an adrenaline-fuelled smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock smirks in return and turns back to the door. He enters a number – not, John notes, 0-5-6-3-8 – each button issuing a faint beep. The little light above the console turns from red to green. Sherlock holds the card above the reader.

            “On three?” John murmurs. Sherlock nods. “Right then. One –”

            Sherlock’s finger taps against the top edge of the card.

            “Two –”

            John’s hand tightens on the violin case, his heart pounding joyously in his chest.

            _“Three.”_


	8. Chapter 8

            Sherlock swipes down with the card. There’s a faint, quick double-beep, and a low _thunk,_ then the green light above the number pad blinks out. With his fingers on the door handle, Sherlock tucks the card into the inner pocket of his jacket and spares a final glance for John, catching his eye and breathing in sync with him just for a moment.

            Then he pushes down, and slips inside.

            John follows, hugging the violin case to his chest and pressing himself back into the walls as he shuts the door behind him as soundlessly as possible. A little red light comes on at his elbow, and he recognises another number pad.

            It’s pitch black at first, but even as Sherlock drops to his knees and shuffles forward, pulling his tools from his pockets, John’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he notices a faint glow coming from the end of the short hallway and to the left – the entrance to the lobby. The light spills over the end of the hall, illuminating the lift corridor opposite the lobby but not quite reaching into the corner where they’re pressed.

            At his right, Sherlock is unscrewing a small metal panel from the wall, the torch between his teeth. As John keeps watch, hardly daring to breathe, Sherlock lays aside the panel and pulls out the wire cutters. His gloved fingers extract three particular wires from the tangled skein within the wall.

            From the lobby echoes the faint sound of murmuring voices. Someone laughs.

            One by one, Sherlock snips through his chosen wires, pausing after each cut to check for repercussions and monitor the voices in the lobby. When the job is done, he prods the wires back into place and screws on the panel, loading his tools back into his pockets. He pushes himself into a crouch and presses down the handle of the emergency exit door. It clicks and clunks and groans a little, but there is no alarm, nor any outcry or suspicious murmuring from the lobby. Sherlock glances over his shoulder to John, beckoning him down and forward.

            Bent double, they slide one after the other into the stark light and cold concrete of the emergency exit stairs, Sherlock holding the door open for John then easing it shut behind them. Their eyes meet over simultaneous sighs of relief, and neither man can help the exhilarated smiles that creep onto their lips. Sherlock cocks his head in the direction of the stairs and John nods, a silent reassurance and agreement.

            They keep their feet as quiet as possible on the bare, grey steps until they reach a door with a large black ‘3’ painted on the wall beside it. Sherlock stops before it, motioning for the violin case, which John places on the ground. They crouch on either side, heads bent, as the detective opens up the compartment and replaces his tools with careful, quiet movements.

            “There are three men stationed at the Security Desk,” he murmurs. “Do you remember the layout of the room?”

            John nods, not making a sound unless absolutely necessary.

            “There are two cameras,” Sherlock continues as he slowly zips up the violin case – “one in each corner of the room opposite this entrance. The hall outside this doorway is one big blind spot so long as you avoid the lift corridor and the hall into Security. You’ll have plenty of time to shoot out the first camera, but the moment you do, you’ll have only a few seconds to reposition, aim, and take out the other.” He pauses, meeting John’s eye. “Do you think you can do it?”

            John’s mouth lifts in smug acceptance of the challenge. “Not a problem.”

            Sherlock stands, taking the violin case with him. “Let the guards come to us,” he says as John untucks the gun from the back of his cummerbund, holding it out at his side. “We can use the hallway to our advantage; it’s not wide enough for all three of them to attack at once.” Sherlock rests his fingers on the door handle, turning one last time to John.

            “Ready?” he asks.

            The gun is a familiar weight at the end of John’s arm.

            “Ready.”

            Sherlock pulls open the door with smooth, soundless movements and leads the way out into the hall, leaving John to latch it as quietly as possible behind them. Outside, it looks much like the ground floor – a short hall, the end flanked by the lift corridor and another opening, through which spills a small amount of light and the occasional muffled voice. The only difference is that there’s no longer an exit at their backs – just a darkened window.

            Sherlock darts across the hall and flattens himself against the wall opposite the lift corridor, blindly beckoning John forward. He directs him to stand beside him, at the very edge of the hall before the opening, and leans down to put his mouth by the doctor’s ear.

            “You should have a clear shot from here,” he breathes; warmth trickles over the back of John’s neck and the shell of his ear – “and from there.” He points to the wall opposite. “An equal distance between both corridors to keep out of sight of the cameras.”

            John nods in understanding and motions for Sherlock to stand back. He leans forward and peers around the corner, cheek pressed against the wall. Down the short corridor and across the open room, he can see he first target. The camera is angled down, like a half-lidded eye, the lens not quite pointed at John, though he knows it’ll catch him nonetheless.

            He steps back from the wall and holds the gun up with both hands, his wrist brushing the wall. Sparing a final glance at Sherlock, he lets out a long, calm breath and steadies his aim. His finger moves smoothly to the trigger.

            He shoots.

            The gunshot rings out, deafening against the surrounding silence, followed immediately by the shattering _crunch_ of the destroyed camera. Sherlock watches, eyes wide in his pale face, as John steps across the hall and repositions himself, back to the wall, lifting his arm.

            “What the fuck?” sounds a voice from within the room, accompanied by the creaking of chairs.

            “Was that –”

            John fires again, with unerring accuracy, and a veritable clamour erupts from the other end of the corridor – voices and chairs and rapidly-approaching footsteps. With a menacing scowl, John lowers the gun and barrels down the hall to meet them.

_“John!”_

            Sherlock’s hissed warning goes unheeded, and John leaps into the fray. He dispatches one man in the first few seconds, catching him on the temple with the butt of his gun and sending him, unconscious, to the floor. Dropping the violin, Sherlock scrambles to follow, but in between dodging blows and landing them, John spins around and forces him back into the hall, sending him tumbling onto his back as the doctor turns seamlessly back into the fray. Winded, Sherlock forces himself up onto his elbows and watches, feeling desperately helpless, as John trades blows with the guards, taking a punch to the gut one moment then catching one of them on the jaw with his elbow the next. It’s all over within a minute: John receives a kick to the ribs and staggers back a step, only to toss his weapon to his left hand – having long since switched on the safety – and leap forward, anticipating a wild blow at his side and deflecting it with his arm even as he uses that same momentum to send his attacker into the wall with an expertly-aimed fist, where he collapses with barely a grunt. Feet anchored firmly to the ground, John twists at the waist, switching his gun hand again and swinging back around, lifting the weapon and bringing the last man skidding to a halt.

            They stand for a moment in tableau – John, stern-faced and upright, weapon raised in a silent threat; the guards, two unconscious and the last bent over at least a few cracked ribs; and Sherlock, still winded and sprawled on the floor, gaping and gasping for air. Only John isn’t panting ferociously.

            There is a crackle of static from behind the desk, and a distorted voice echoes through the room.

_“Hey, is everything all right down there? Thought I heard something.”_

            There is a pause – a moment in which both Sherlock and the remaining guard stare fearfully toward the source of the interruption. John, not taking his eyes off his captive, motions him toward the desk with his gun.

            “Everything’s fine,” he says firmly, allowing for no misunderstanding. The guard glances for a moment between gunman and desk, then hurries to comply, backing up to round the end of the desk and picking up a walkie-talkie. John follows at a distance, leading with his gun, now clasped in both hands.

            “No funny business,” he snaps, causing the guard to swallow, his breath quickening. He presses down a button with another hiss of static.

            “No, mate,” he says into the receiver, impressively calm. “Everything’s fine down here. ’Spect it was something on the street.”

_“Right then,”_ comes the casual reply. _“Get in touch if you see anything.”_ A final click of static, and the connection is lost. The guard drops the walkie-talkie back to the desk.

            “Back out here,” John orders, gesturing with his gun once more. “Hands where I can see them.” The guard obeys, holding his hands up by his ears and scurrying around into the open. “Face the desk,” says John when he reaches the middle of the room.

            The man obeys, his chest heaving and his eyes scared and downturned. John steps up to him from behind and, with one, swift blow to the head, knocks him out. The man crumples to the floor, and John has just enough time to let out a slow, controlled exhalation and tuck the gun in his pocket before Sherlock is rushing into the room.

            “You _idiot!”_ he hisses, gripping John by the biceps and wrenching him around. “What were you _thinking?_ The plan was to let _them_ come to _us!_ You could have been killed,there were three of them!”

            “Sherlock –” John tries, startled, but the detective ignores him, his voice low and harsh.

            “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?” he growls, his eyes wild behind the mask and his grip unyielding. “What would I do if they’d overpowered you, if they’d _killed_ you, John, _what would I do –”_

            “Sherlock, _calm down!”_ says John, bringing his hands up to both hold Sherlock at bay and pull him a little closer. “I wasn’t going to _die,_ they weren’t even armed!”

            But Sherlock’s voice is getting more and more breathless, and his fingers are starting to tremble where they’re clamped around John’s arms. _“No!”_ he chokes out, shaking his friend. “You charged in here with no regard to your safety, completely ignoring the plan and _barely_ knowing what you were facing, you wouldn’t even let me _help –”_

            John snorts, and the laughter is so unexpected that it sends Sherlock’s litany to a grinding halt. “Sherlock, I’m a _trained soldier,”_ he says, slow and clear and just a little bit amused. “And no offence, but hand-to-hand combat is hardly your forté _._ I was trying to protect you.”

            Sherlock looks unreasonably upset, pride mingling with the shock and fear in his eyes. “I fight very well!” he snaps defensively. “And I don’t need _protecting.”_

            John just laughs again, shaking his head, fond and long-suffering. “Can you fight off three trained security guards?” he asks; Sherlock doesn’t answer. “Exactly,” John continues. “But clearly, _I can.”_ He looks at Sherlock – really looks – and suddenly all he sees is a brilliant, terrified young man with nothing but a fragile plan to keep himself afloat. “I know what I’m doing, Sherlock,” he says, sobering. “Trust me.”

            Despite the reassurance, Sherlock hands barely loosen. John holds his gaze, his own grip on Sherlock’s arms firm and assured. After a moment, the detective’s expression shutters and fades, and he pulls back just a fraction. He looks away, focusing instead on where his long fingers are crushing John’s sleeve. When he tries once more to speak, his voice is low and restrained, calmer than before but still on the verge of shuddering.

            “John –”

            “I know,” says John, cutting him off. Sherlock glances up. “It’s all right. I’m fine.” A little smile worms its way into the corner of his mouth. “We’re fine.”

            With a long, harsh sigh through his nose, Sherlock’s shoulders sag with relief. His hands slide from John arms as he steps back, glaring somewhere around John’s midsection. When his eyes next dart up to catch John’s, they’ve returned to their usual sharpness, dark and intelligent and biting.

            “Don’t do anything that stupid again,” he snaps, turning on his heel and marching back out into the hall to retrieve the violin. “Or if you do, _warn me.”_

            Chuckling, John shakes his head with just a hint of ruefulness.  “What are we going to do with these three?” he asks as Sherlock re-enters the room, nodding at the unconscious guards.

            “There are zip ties in there,” says Sherlock, tossing the case to John who catches it more with his chest than his arms. “I’ll deal with the cameras.”

            John does as he’s told, binding the guards’ hands behind their backs and keeping one eye on Sherlock as he moves behind the desk. If he was expecting something technical and complicated, he’s disappointed – Sherlock simply seeks out the wall sockets and removes every plug he can find. One by one, the screens behind the desk wink out, and the computers hum down into silence. As John finishes up with the guards, deciding to tie their ankles together for good measure, Sherlock removes the batteries from the walkie-talkie, burying them in the bundles of wires under the desk.

            Minutes later, they meet over the violin case, exchanging brief, exhilarated smiles.

            “So,” says John, face straightening. “I think that went quite well, all things considered.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders shake for a moment with low, quiet chuckles. “All things considered, yes,” he says. “You went out of your way to ruin my plans and almost got yourself killed…”

            “Just an average day at the office, really,” John quips. He’s rewarded with a wide, beaming grin from the man crouched across from him, and returns it readily.

            Sherlock presses his lips together, bringing the smile down to more manageable levels. “Shall we proceed, Doctor Watson?” he says, with an air of affected formality.

            “Certainly, Mr Holmes,” John replies in turn, his expression turning sombre and reserved and deliciously mocking.

            “Then let’s go.” Sherlock snaps shut the violin case and they stand, striding out of the room. Sherlock, all black tails and dark hair, is swallowed by the shadows of the corridor, even as the cut of John’s jacket shows up strikingly white against the darkness. They round the corner and ease their way back into the emergency stairwell, leaving the unconscious guards in a sprawl beneath the darkened screens of the erstwhile Security Desk.


	9. Chapter 9

            Twenty-seven flights of stairs later, John leans back against the blank wall, trying to regulate his breathing, as Sherlock drops the violin case and leans on his knees, panting.

            “Jesus Christ,” John sighs between breaths, trying his best to keep his voice down. “That better’ve been worth it.”

            “Oh, it will be,” Sherlock replies in an undertone, swallowing. “Just wait until we’re cracking safes, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

            John chuckles breathlessly and sighs, the heaving of his chest slowing. “So, what are we facing out there?” he whispers.

            “Cameras are out, but the motion sensors are still on,” says Sherlock, hissing the words out on exhales. “They activate the lights – guards will be on us in seconds.”

            “So we’ll be avoiding guards as well.”

            Sherlock gives a fleeting smirk. “Should be just the one up here,” he says. “By the lifts.”

            “Which we’re going right past.” John frowns. “How do you expect to wrangle that one?”

            “Either we get lucky, and he’s fallen asleep on the job,” says Sherlock ruefully, “or we’re unlucky, and – you can deal with him.”

            John shakes his head, chuckling. “What _would_ you have done without me here, Sherlock?”

            Sherlock sniffs, and says nothing, his expression haughty and impenetrable. John rolls his eyes and ignores him.

            “All right then, motion sensors,” he continues. “You know a way around them?”

            Sherlock’s mouth lifts in a little smirk of triumph. “Oh yes,” he says. “It’s a very specific path, but I’m sure you can manage it. Just step only where I step, and we should be fine.”

            John nods, clearing his throat. “Right then.” He tips his head back until it meets the wall, his gasps slowing until he lets out a smooth, controlled breath. He glances at Sherlock, meeting his eye without lifting his head. “Ready?”

            Sherlock straightens, stretching out his back and rolling his shoulders before hefting the violin case. He raises his eyebrows at John, prompting him to pull his gun from his pocket.

            They exchange a final nod, and Sherlock eases open the door.

John slips through first, gun held ready before him, and Sherlock follows. John’s steps are silent as he puts his back to the right-hand wall, the dimly-lit marble of the corridor just beyond. He glances once at Sherlock, takes a breath, and steps out into the spill of light, gun aloft.

            A second later, his shoulders sag and a frown buries itself in his brow.

            Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

            Lowering his weapon, John turns his bewildered gaze to Sherlock, still standing in the shadows, and beckons him over with a nod of his head. The detective steps hesitantly forward, watching John’s profile for clues; when he reaches John’s side, though, the tension rolls from his back, and his expression turns to match the doctor’s confusion.

            The corridor is empty.

            There is a chair at the far end, clearly meant for the attendant security, but there is a distinct lack of actual guard waiting for them. John glances up again, and when Sherlock meets his gaze, he raises his eyebrows in a clear enquiry. Sherlock’s face takes on a twist that implies _‘why are you asking me?’_ , and he shrugs, turning back to stare at the empty chair.

            After a moment of silent perplexity, John nudges Sherlock with his elbow and catches his eye, nodding in the direction of the dark corridor leading further into the building. Sherlock shrugs again, as if to say _‘I suppose so’_ , and ducks around behind John to the entrance to a long hallway. Stopping at the corner, he turns to John and beckons him over, bending down until his lips are almost brushing John’s ear.

            “Remember,” he breathes – “step _only_ where I step.”

            He pulls away to look for comprehension in John’s eyes, dark and fathomless in the shadows cast by the feeble light near the lifts. The doctor nods in acknowledgement, his gun remaining at his side. Sherlock turns away, takes a deep breath, and steps around the corner.

            The corridor is vaguely familiar from their first visit, lined on one side with doors and just dark enough to be menacing. Keeping his eyes trained on a small white box tucked against the ceiling above his head, Sherlock edges along the wall, the violin flat and upright by his side. When he’s made his way a few feet into the hall, he moves his gaze to another of the little boxes on the opposite wall and beckons blindly for John to follow.

            John’s breath seems terrifyingly loud, cutting through the silence of the building, not even marred by the sounds of the traffic far below. As the doctor shuffles up beside him, Sherlock presses his hand to John’s chest in a silent but clear message: _Stay here._

            Emptying his lungs in a long, slow breath, Sherlock pulls the violin to his side and, in three steps, crosses the hall at a diagonal and flattens himself once more against the wall. Just briefly, he closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to breathe before shuffling along the wall to make room for John. He looks up and meets his gaze across the hall, and nods his authorisation.

            John eyes the space between them, measuring the distance and confirming the angle, glancing up at the two sensors on either side of the hall. Not giving himself time to hesitate, he sucks in a quick breath and darts after Sherlock.

            No lights come on. No alarm blares into life.

            Blowing a few, heavy breaths through his mouth, John glances obliquely up at the detective, exchanging a breathless smile.

            They continue in this fashion for most of the corridor, alternating between sidling along walls and zig-zagging across the hall, Sherlock leading and John following exactly in his footsteps. Eventually, they reach the empty doorway, opening up on the right-hand side of the corridor, through which Sherlock squeezes, half-crouched and pressing himself to the bare, white-painted plaster of the walls. John follows around the corner, and immediately finds himself nose-to-shoulder with Sherlock, who is standing against the wall and scanning the large, empty room before them. As before, there’s a chair beside the single, mahogany door, though the unblinking security guard is mercifully absent.

            Sherlock glances at John, then bends down to his ear. “Keep behind me,” he breathes; “I won’t have time to signal.” He waits for John’s nod of assent, then turns back to the room.

            They begin by sidling along the wall to the right, Sherlock continuously glancing between the innocuous boxes in each corner and at the top of the wall facing the door – their destination. Five feet into the room, he turns his gaze to the floor before them, calculating and precise, then back up to each of the sensors. Without preamble, he sets off in a straight line across the carpet, angled away from the centre of the room, John at his heels. They’ve just begun to gain momentum when Sherlock, without warning, freezes in his tracks. Unable to stop himself in time, John collides with his back, and with a gasp, the detective almost stumbles forward, throwing his arms back as if avoiding the edge of a cliff. Without thinking, John throws his left arm around Sherlock’s waist and drags him back from the invisible precipice, pulling him in to his chest and anchoring them both in place.

            Holding the violin case back at their sides, Sherlock slumps in John’s grip, panting as if he’s just run a mile. They stand like that for a moment, gasping, John’s arm hard as steel around Sherlock’s torso and his forehead falling forward to rest between harsh shoulder blades. Sherlock stares, horrified, at the bland, empty carpet before them; a moment later, he pushes away John’s arm, glaring at him over his shoulder.

            _“Don’t – do – that,”_ he seethes. John fixes him with a look that has sent lesser men running.

            _“You_ told me to stay behind you,” he growls in return. “Maybe if you’d give me a bit of _warning_ instead of forgetting I’m even here –”

            “How _could_ I forget when you’re constantly trying to ruin the plan?” Sherlock hisses between his teeth.

            _“I’m –”_ He stops, lips pursing and eyes clouding with anger. He leans forward, his chin practically on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I saved your arse, remember?”

            “Well I’d appreciate it if you didn’t undo all your _hard work.”_

            John breathes through his nose for a moment, his face almost murderous – then he leans back and rolls his eyes. “Just – _go,_ would you?” he whispers. “We’re in the middle of a fucking break-in, I think this can wait till we’re either home or in prison.”

            Sherlock glares at him a moment longer, then turns forward again, sighing away the remaining tension. He leads the way in a sweeping curve towards the wall by the door, his steps noticeably slower, allowing John to follow with more precision. They end up with their backs to the wall, the door to Sherlock’s left and John to his right. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, roving the sensors and the darkened squares of the lights.

            “I need you to shoot out the light in the middle row,” he says in an undertone, “closest to the sensor on the far wall.”

           John nods and lifts the gun, but Sherlock stops him with a hand on his wrist before he can extend his arm.

           “Keep your hands close,” he whispers.

           “Fine,” John sighs, bracing the weapon against his left wrist. “Might take out my own teeth, but fine.” He peers through the gloom at the ceiling lights. “Middle row, you said?”

           “Closest to the sensor.”

           “Right.” He adjusts his grip and lets out a steady breath. “Right.”

           Instead of shooting, though, John’s trigger finger darts back to the guard, and he drops his hands slightly, frowning up at Sherlock.

           “How exactly _were_ you planning to do all this without me?”

           A small crease appears between Sherlock’s brows. “I was going to take your gun.”

           “And shoot out two security cameras and a ceiling light,” John deadpans.

           “What’s wrong with that?”

           John snorts, turning back to his task and repositioning his weapon. “Nothing,” he says innocently. “Nothing at all.” His finger tightens on the trigger, and, with a retort that sounds as if it must have woken everyone within a five-mile radius, punctures the plastic covering and shatters the glass of one of the lights. He freezes, glancing sidelong at Sherlock. “Hope no one heard that.”

           “We’re far enough away from the nearest guard that it should have been too muffled to arouse any serious suspicion,” says Sherlock calmly, watching the lights as he passes the violin case to John. He pulls the key card from his jacket and reaches out to his left, keeping his body in place, his feet anchored to the floor. After the briefest hesitation, he swipes the card through the console by the door: a quick double-beep sounds, and a little light turns green. With his eyes fixed on the overhead lights, Sherlock leans even further out and carefully unlatches the door; it swings inward a few inches, hissing over the rug within.

           He takes a breath, and steps out to his left.

           Behind the bullet hole, the lightbulb sparks once, and dies.

           The room remains dark.

           Grinning triumphantly, Sherlock spins around, tails whirling, and pushes through into the next room, John following with the gun and violin. Sherlock shuts the door behind them, plunging them into complete blackness apart from the little green light above the inner console, winking out into red as they’re automatically locked in. With a susurrus of rustles, Sherlock disappears from John’s side, stalking away across the room. ~~~~

           “Sherlock!” John hisses, tucking his gun into his cummerbund and trying to see through the dark. _“Sherlock!”_

           “Over here,” comes a low call from across the room. John passes the violin to his right hand and heads toward where he remembers the inner door to have been, groping about before him with his free hand. Sherlock continues a hushed litany of “Here, John, here,” and eventually John’s fingers fumble their way into the detective’s arm and he is tugged forward and to his right until he can just feel the heat of another body by his.

           “Torches, under the violin.”

           John obeys, crouching down and fumbling with the violin case. Beside him, he can hear Sherlock running his fingers carefully over the wood of the door, fumbling about around the handle and smoothing over the edges. As his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, John thinks he can make out the movement of Sherlock’s leg in front of him, and he digs two torches out from the mess under the violin.

           “Close your eyes,” he warns in a whisper, waiting until he detects the faint shift of Sherlock turning his head away above him before burying his own face in his elbow and switching on one of the torches.

           In contrast to the pitch blackness of before, the room now seems ablaze with light. Slowly, tentatively, both men untuck their faces from their arms and blink into the cold high-beam. John hands the torch to Sherlock and switches on his own, zipping up the violin case and standing next to his friend. He flashes the beam of his torch over the door and frowns.

           “Doesn’t look like there’s any security here at all,” he mumbles. “Guess he didn’t think he needed it this far in.”

           Sherlock levels a condescending glare at him over their torches. “It doesn’t _look_ like there’s any security,” he drawls. “Doesn’t mean there _isn’t_ any.”

           “You think it’s – hidden or something?” John asks.

           “Obviously.”

           John rolls his eyes but says nothing, stepping back and scanning the doorjamb as Sherlock kneels in front of the handle, pressing and prodding at the wood.

           “Sherlock…” John starts, just as the man in question murmurs a triumphant little “Aha!” into the mahogany. “What is it?” John asks, and Sherlock leans back from the door to show John a small, circular panel of wood, slid aside to reveal a keyhole.

           “Should be easy enough…” Sherlock mutters, twisting around to drag the violin case closer. As he pulls out the little bundle of lockpicks, John continues to peer at the panelled wall beside the door.

           “Sherlock,” he says tentatively, “I think –”

           “What?”

           He looks up as John steps forward and runs his fingers over a curious line in the wood, his gloves catching slightly in a hairline-thin crack.

           John grins. “Thought so.”

           Crouching next to Sherlock, he holds the torch between his teeth and runs his fingertips along the fissure, measuring out a small square of wood about the size of his hand. He picks and presses at the edges, heedless of Sherlock’s attention, now riveted squarely on him.

           “I’sh defi’itely –” John garbles around the torch, frowning at the wall. “Bu’ I’m no’ sure how i’…”

            Suddenly, with two subdued clicks, the panel pops out on levered hinges, swinging open to reveal a number pad, accompanied, as at the service entrance, by a card reader and a little red light.

            “Ah,” says Sherlock, revealing nothing. “Thank you, John.”

            “My pleasure,” he replies absently, wiping the handle of the torch on his sleeve. He glances at Sherlock, whose gaze is now intent upon the number pad. “You didn’t know this was here, did you?” ~~~~

            “This part of the building is extremely off-limits,” says Sherlock, his voice calm even as his eyes narrow, flitting over the buttons. “To be honest, I had no idea what I’d find in here.”

            “That’s reassuring…” John mutters, turning back to the wall. His eyes move up, scanning over the door, and he sighs. “Think this is it?” he asks in an undertone.

            “PIN, key card, physical lock…” Sherlock’s words are all but whispered, and clearly not in answer to John’s question. He too leans back on his heels to run his gaze over the rest of the door. “Check the wall on the other side,” he says. “We can’t be too careful.”

            Pushing himself up, John stands and crosses behind Sherlock to other side of the door, running first the beam of his torch and then his fingers over every inch of mahogany he can reach within a foot of the doorway. He inspects the crack between the edge of the door and the jamb, the gap under the door, the skirting board.

            “Nothing,” he says as he picks himself up off the floor and into a half-crouch. Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement, examining the number pad with his magnifier. “Have you – got any ideas about the code for that?” John asks, nodding at the little hidden console.

            “A few…” Sherlock mutters, snapping shut the magnifier and leaning back on his heels, the gloved fingers of one hand toying at his lips. “It’s for Milverton’s secure office, private affairs, so it’ll probably be something personal, if it isn’t entirely random,” he says, contemplative and calculating. “Eight digits; the first two numbers are zero and four… five comes later, possibly with another zero before it…”

            “Could be a date?” John suggests. “The – fourth of May…”

            “It wouldn’t be a birthday, he’s better than that…” Sherlock muses, not taking his eyes off the number pad.

            “Well, something important to him, then,” says John. “Some kind of…” He shrugs, shaking his head. “A publication, or an award, or –”

            Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “Nineteen eighty-five,” he blurts.

            “What?” John frowns at him. “What happened in nineteen eighty-five?”

            “In his office, downstairs, his _official_ office,” Sherlock babbles – “the fifth of April, nineteen eighty-five…”

            John stares, nonplussed. “Wait, fifth of April? I thought we were talking about –”

            “Month-day-year format John, to throw us off!” Sherlock’s face lights up, his words tripping over themselves in excitement. “The oldest award on the shelf is the British Press Award, Journalist of the Year – received on the fifth of April nineteen eighty-five. His _first award,_ John.” He turns back to the keypad, triumph in his eyes. “Makes perfect sense.”

            “And if it’s wrong?” John asks, his voice light but his face serious.

           The glee in Sherlock’s face does not diminish. “Could set off an alarm for all we know,” he says, “but it’s our best chance. There’s nothing for it.”

            John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, mindful of the mask. “Well then, off you go,” he says, hardly hopeful. “And good bloody luck.”

            Pressing his lips together, Sherlock steadies his breath and leans forward. With an unshaking hand, he enters the numbers – zero, four, zero, five, one, nine, eight, five; eight short beeps – and a flicker of red to green.

           John’s shoulders sag in relief.

           Taking up the key card, Sherlock swipes it through the reader. The welcoming double-beep sounds, and something metallic slides into place within the wood before them.

            “Now the lock,” Sherlock murmurs, shifting over and turning to the bundle of lockpicks on the floor. He hands his torch to John, who settles beside him and directs both beams at the lock. Sherlock picks out his tools with the precision of a surgeon and sets to work, sliding them into place, his eyes intent on his task. Silence descends, along with a tremblingly fragile stillness which seems to surround them like a bubble, merging with the darkness. All life seems to be enclosed in their little puddle of torchlight – their two sets of breaths, evening into each other, must be the only ones left in the world, and the clicking of the picks the one remaining sound, trickling into being in a faintly eerie chorus reminiscent of cooling metal, and trailing down the mahogany to die at the edge of the quivering circle of light. Eventually, there sounds a soft, innocent _snick,_ and Sherlock turns the lock and sits back on his heels with a sigh. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, the sliver of skin between shirt cuff and glove. The door unlatches when John gives it a careful push, and the building stays as silent and unsuspecting as ever.

            “Close that panel,” says Sherlock quietly, with a nod to the console and its swinging door. As John presses it back into place with an accepting _c-click,_ Sherlock gathers up his lockpicks and stows them away under the violin once more, along with his magnifier and the master key card. He slides the wafer-thin shaft of wood back in front of the lock and stands, glancing over at John.

            “Almost there,” he whispers, sounding somehow reverent, as if they’re about to enter the inner sanctum of a temple or church.

            “Then let’s get it over with,” John grumbles in return. Sherlock smirks to one side and shifts his grip on the violin.

            “Let’s.”


	10. Chapter 10

            Milverton’s office is marginally lighter than the waiting room, the faint glow of the city seeping in through the cracks around the curtains. Sherlock and John sweep their torch beams over the room, establishing their bearings and again taking in the rich grandiosity of the wood and leather, muted, now, in the shadows.

            “Turn on the computer,” Sherlock orders, striding across the room and setting the violin case on the desk. John complies, rounding the other side of the desk and hunting out the power button with his torch. A moment later, the droning, whirring sound of the computer booting up fills the room, loud as a hurricane to their ears.

            Standing before the safe, Sherlock presses his fingertips together and inspects the heavy green metal from a distance. John remains silent, knowing through both instinct and experience that what Sherlock needs now is only the room to do his work in peace. Glancing from the detective, to the computer, to the open door, John decides to put himself to use nonetheless, and pulls his gun out from under his jacket, stepping quietly across the room to stand in the doorway. He keeps one eye on the outer door of the waiting room and the other on Sherlock’s hunched shoulders, alert and more than a little bit tense.

            As the whirring of the computer descends to a low hum, Sherlock takes a step back and shrugs out of his tailcoat, draping it carelessly over the desk. “Mind the door, John,” he mumbles, almost unintelligible, as he crouches in front of the safe and runs his gloved fingers over the surface of the metal. John rolls his eyes at the exclusivity of the man’s focus; _spectacularly ignorant_ indeed.

           Sherlock tugs up his sleeves and leans his ear against the front of the safe, giving the dial an experimental turn. Then, with a mildly satisfied expression, he shifts on his knees, making himself comfortable and plastering himself against the safe, ear to the metal and long, deft fingers steady on the dial. He gives John a final order – “Don’t interrupt me” – and closes his eyes, setting to work.

            It seems, to John, to take an age. Sherlock remains frozen in position before the safe, his only movements the slow, practised turning of the dial and his eyes blinking open every so often to take stock of the numbers before him. Across the room, John barely moves, occasionally adjusting his grip on the gun or shifting his weight a little, and letting his eyes flicker from Sherlock to the door and back again; but compared to the detective’s stillness, he feels like a beacon of movement, attracting invisible eyes to their presence. Every so often, Sherlock’s eyes snap open, unseeing, flickering over some map or image in his head, and he spins the wheel back around; John would almost think he was starting over were it not for the complete lack of frustration in his face. Then the process begins again, Sherlock meticulously counting out the clicks that only he can hear, each turn of the dial bringing them closer to their goal.

            Finally, after what feels like endless hours of tension, the safe gives a definite _clunk,_ and Sherlock sits back on his heels, drawing back his arms and staring at the dark green metal as if it might explode. He reaches forward, fingers hesitant but steady, and gives the safe door an experimental tug.

            Silently, placidly, it swings open.

            Breaking into a grin, Sherlock stands and twirls on his toes, tugging at the ends of his clean, white waistcoat. “John, find Eva’s articles,” he says, his voice low and trembling with excitement as he darts over to the computer. “We’re almost done here… almost done…”

            Pacing across the room and tucking his gun away again at the small of his back, John glances over at Sherlock and pulls the safe door wide. “D’you know his password or something?” he asks, scanning the inside of the safe; it’s lined with row upon row of shelves and drawers, each containing neat bundles of papers held together with string and paperclips and great, clawed bulldog clips. John refuses to baulk.

            “Don’t need the password,” says Sherlock triumphantly, pulling the violin case closer and unzipping it with a flourish. “Just the virus.” In the corner, John is shuffling through the lines of paper packets, searching for anything big enough to be a magazine. Sherlock keeps talking in his low, restrained voice as he rummages through the compartment under the violin. “It’s been activated on the memory stick,” he says, almost breathless with excitement. “Once it’s plugged in, it goes to work almost automatically. That’s the beauty of it, I barely have to lift a finger for it to –”

            Somewhere below them, something large and metal gives a dull, echoing _thunk,_ followed by a roaring, humming, whirring noise – a straining coming ever closer. Both men go still, looking up from their work. John glances over at Sherlock.

            “What is that?” he asks sternly, dreading the answer.

            “The lift,” Sherlock replies, staring, unseeing, at the bookshelves opposite. Realisation dawns on his face, mingled with a terrifying brand of horror and resignation. “He’s meeting someone.” His gaze tears itself away and latches onto John’s. “That’s why there are no guards up here, he’s expecting company!”

            “Oh, _shit.”_

With a few deft clicks, Sherlock shuts down the computer, tucking away the keyboard tray and scanning the desk for anything left askew. John glances at him and all but leaps across the room, zipping shut the violin and muttering expletives under his breath as Sherlock turns in a circle to take in the room, nudging the red leather chair into position as the sound of the lift comes ever closer. At the same moment as John switches off his torch and shoves it into his pocket, the whirr of the computer dies away in sync with the slowing of the lift as it grinds to a halt at the thirtieth floor. Silence descends, an awful, condemning silence which presses at their skin and leaves their ears ringing.

            _“Torch,”_ John hisses, catching the one Sherlock tosses over and extinguishing it, letting the darkness swallow them. He grabs the violin and Sherlock’s jacket off the desk as Sherlock slams the safe shut and spins around, casting about for a place to hide and lighting on the curtain and the little balcony beyond.

            “Get the door,” he mutters, crossing the room behind John and leaving him to ease the door into place, latching out the sound of approaching footsteps. “Onto the balcony, quick!”

            Sherlock whips aside the velvet curtain, flooding the room with the dull grey light of the street, and finds the door behind it mercifully unlocked. He ducks through, holding the door for John before tugging the curtain back into place and snapping it shut behind them. With a final _click,_ they are left with only the freezing wind, a few metres of concrete and steel-and-glass railing, and an excellent view across Euston Road and over the city. With his back to the door, John grips Sherlock’s torch hard enough to feel the metal creaking under his fingers, hugging the violin to his chest and itching to pull out his gun. Beside him, Sherlock is staring at the door, a sort of blank horror falling over his expression. He starts to shiver in only his shirtsleeves, the wind whipping at his hair and tugging insistently at the edges of John’s jacket.

            Without daring to even whisper, John juggles the torch and violin into one hand and holds out Sherlock’s jacket with the other, silently imploring him to cover up against the harsh weather. Sherlock accepts in similar silence, not meeting John’s eye as he tugs at his cuffs and slides into the jacket, bundling his arms against his chest and hunching against the cold. John is too wired on adrenaline to feel it, tucking Sherlock’s torch into his pocket and resisting the nagging urge to pull out his gun.

            Then suddenly there is yellow light creeping out around the edges of the curtain, trimming the balcony with gold and trapping them between the glow of the room and the dark emptiness beyond the railing. Far below, the traffic has dwindled down to the occasional swish of a single, late-night commuter, and on the other side of the door, barely audible above the bubbling rush of the wind, the computer hums into life. John glances up at Sherlock and catches his eye, in equal measure fearful and determined. He leans back slightly and turns his head to glance into the room behind him, finding a gap between the red curtain and the polished steel bordering the glass of the door. Sherlock joins him, stepping close and craning his neck to peer through the same gap.

            Milverton is sitting at his computer, awash in the yellow light of the ceiling lamp and looking as smug and slimy as ever, despite the late hour. He seems to be scrolling through some document, his eyes darting across the screen behind his glasses. It’s well past midnight, and there’s no doubt about the morality of what he has planned – yet his manner hardly brings to mind clandestine meetings and the transaction of blackmail materials. He lounges in his chair as if taking a short break at work, entirely at ease and with an air of the kind of businesslike efficiency that allows for time to spare. John feels only disgust and repulsion at the memory of his smooth, oily voice and permanent, condescending smile.

            It’s then that he sees it. Just as he begins to pull back from the window, ducking out from under Sherlock’s chin, John lets his eyes fall aimlessly over the rest of the room, and his stomach plunges.

            The safe door is only half-latched.

            From the front, it must look innocuous enough, but from this angle, the door seems to jut out like an irregularity in a cliff face, angular and obvious and dooming. John glances at Sherlock, wondering if he’s seen it but wary of actually asking. Though the detective’s face, fixed on the room, reveals nothing, his hand fumbles blindly for John’s, and the harsh, reassuring squeeze tells John all he needs to know. _I can see it,_ Sherlock seems to be saying. _It’ll be all right._

            They stand there for what feels like an age, Sherlock watching Milverton and John watching the city spread out beneath them, never quite asleep despite the hour. Sherlock shivers occasionally in the cold, and after a while, John starts to join in, the harsh wind insinuating itself under his collar and the thin material of his trousers, sending a preliminary ache deep into the scar on his shoulder. As Sherlock’s lips turn steadily bluer, though, and John begins to lose feeling in the end of his nose, another sound reaches them, growing louder and more obvious by the second. It’s a sound John associates first with long stretches of sandy grass, then with a muddy field, a creek, and Buckingham Palace; a rapid, rhythmic thudding that separates from the wind and throws itself against John’s eardrums as it approaches.

            Frowning, John catches the glance Sherlock sends him, then diverts his gaze to the sky. He locates the source of the sound at the same time as Sherlock turns fully away from the window and raises an arm, pointing out the looming lights of a helicopter headed their way.

            Sherlock glances around them, his eyes landing on a length of ladder on the wall a few feet from the balcony. Part of a branching fire escape system, the ladder leads from the balcony staggered below theirs up onto the roof, curling over the short wall above. As the helicopter passes overhead, slowing as it reaches the roof of Appledore Tower, Sherlock plucks at John’s sleeve and nods in the direction of the fire escape. John, resisting the urge to yell at him, just purses his lips and follows Sherlock to the edge of the balcony, gripping his arm and pulling him down to his level. He cups his hand around his mouth and puts it to Sherlock’s ear, trying to find a suitable middle ground between the shout required to be heard over the buffeting of the helicopter, and the whisper he wants to use to avoid Milverton’s notice.

            “Are you completely insane?” he growls, squinting against the noise and wind of the helicopter, already descending over the roof.

            Sherlock reverses their positions until he can speak into John’s ear. “I need to see who it is,” he mutters, patronising even without the requisite _‘idiot’_ tacked on. “Even if I don’t make it, there’s a balcony _right there,_ I’ll be fine.” He tries to pull back, but John’s hand fists in his sleeve, and he conveys just how stupid he thinks the plan is with a particularly tight-mouthed glare. Sherlock rolls his eyes and bends his head again. “If you don’t want to come, you can stay on your safe little balcony – but I’m going.”

            John’s fist tightens on Sherlock’s arm, fighting the urge to punch him, but the matter has already been well and truly settled. Sighing roughly through his nose, John pulls away to set down the violin case, leaving Sherlock to smirk and clamber over the railing. John returns to the edge of the balcony just as Sherlock leaps across the gap, falling onto the ladder with a dull, metallic ringing. Both men freeze, staring at one another, John standing on the balcony and Sherlock with his limbs twined in the rungs of the ladder.

            Above, the helicopter is falling to its rest as John steps carefully back to glance into Milverton’s office. The man is smirking slightly, glancing up at the ceiling as if watching the helicopter’s descent. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the noise of the ladder, or the subtly jagged edge of the safe.

            John glances across at Sherlock and nods his reassurance, leaving the detective to sag slightly in relief before climbing the ladder. Deciding that they threw their caution well and truly to the wind hours ago, John hurries to follow, mounting the railing with a little less finesse than Sherlock and ignoring the reminder of how much shorter his limbs are. As Sherlock’s feet rise above him, he pushes himself off the balcony, throwing himself at the ladder with steely abandon. He latches on with one hand, sending the rest of his body swinging into the metal as he scrabbles for the rungs. Within seconds, he’s established a steady grip and centred his weight, and immediately pulls himself up after Sherlock as the thumping of the helicopter blades begins to slow. Above him, Sherlock keeps his head below the line of the roof as he curls himself around one side of the ladder, clinging to the rungs like a well-dressed monkey and leaving room for John to join him. As the doctor manoeuvres himself into the space beside him, two pairs of arms and legs getting thoroughly tangled, they hear the metallic grinding of the helicopter door.

            Sparing a single exhilarated glance for John, Sherlock pulls himself up on the ladder, raising himself just enough to peer over the wall. With a less elegant strain and a bit more fumbling, John follows, jutting his head over the top of the ladder and narrowly avoiding a fatal collision with Sherlock’s cheekbone.

            The great black helicopter is slowing to its rest, flooding the roof with harsh, white light and throwing detritus to the walls, dead leaves and the odd crisp packet cowering against the concrete. As the blades slowly wind down, a figure steps out onto the roof – an elegant and intensely feminine figure, skirt suit hugging her waist and a dark scarf wound about her head, covering her hair and most of her face and fluttering wildly in the turbulence of her grand entrance. As she turns away from the helicopter, John thinks he sees her eyes catch on them, but she’s far enough away, and her face well-hidden enough, that he can’t quite be sure. In any case, she makes no indication of having seen anything out of the ordinary, so he decides not to worry.

            Raising one hand to hold down the scarf, the woman tugs at the edges of her trim, grey jacket, pressing them into place against the wind as she sets off across the roof, stiletto heels clicking with unwavering precision. The headlights of the helicopter are behind her, throwing her shadow long and dark across the concrete and obscuring her face even further. She strides toward the housing of the emergency stairs in the far corner, her steps seeming to hold an almost murderous intent. With a _thunk_ and a groan of metal, she pulls open the door and disappears, along with the echo of her footsteps and the flutter of her scarf. The moment the door clangs shut, the lights on the helicopter switch off, plunging the roof into sudden darkness as the thumping of the blades finally swings to a halt.

            Atop the ladder, the night air still whipping about them, John and Sherlock duck back behind the wall and exchange a worried, curious glance. Sherlock looks away, out over the city, spread out beneath them with only a small, concrete balcony a little way below separating them and the plunge down to street level. He sighs, the sparking circuits of his hard drive practically visible in the tightening of his mouth and his darting eyes.

            “You go first,” he says softly, the wind tugging his words away almost before they can be heard.

            Blowing out a resolute breath, John carefully extracts each of his limbs from Sherlock’s and the rungs of the ladder, lowering himself carefully until he’s far enough down to be able to swing onto the ladder properly without Sherlock getting in the way. He descends until he’s a little above the level of Milverton’s balcony and glances down, measuring the distance and shaking his head at himself.

            “Sure, John, you go first,” he mutters to himself, “see if you don’t break your neck on the way down.” He huffs out a sigh and manoeuvres himself around on the ladder until he’s sure he won’t tangle a foot in the metal and send himself tumbling headfirst to the balcony below. He clenches his fists around the metal rungs, readying himself for the plunge and silently cursing Sherlock for ever dragging him along to stake out 22 Northumberland Street for a murderous cabbie.

            With an almighty heave, he throws himself at the balcony ahead, launching off the rungs with as many limbs as he can manage, giving himself a final, extra push with his trailing foot against the side of the ladder. He tucks his feet up to avoid tripping over the railing, and lands heavily on the concrete, trying and failing to stop himself staggering, and falling into a roll to compensate. On his backside, pushing himself up with his hands, his gaze whips around to the gap in the curtain, hoping desperately that he’s gone unheard.

Within, Milverton is clicking placidly away at his computer, languid and oblivious.

            John looks up at Sherlock and raises one hand in a thumbs-up, the corner of his mouth lifting in a huff of silent, slightly-hysterical laughter. He pushes himself to his feet as Sherlock readies himself for his own launch, and stands back, hands tense at his sides and weight on the balls of his feet, utterly prepared to jump forward should Sherlock catch one of his absurdly long feet on the edge of the railing.

            As it is, though, Sherlock makes the jump with ease, following John’s example and smoothing his landing into a roll, ending up crouched on his toes and fingertips and reminding John just a little too much of some kind of superhero. He pulls himself up as John peers back through the curtain into Milverton’s office, relieved to find him still completely unsuspecting of the intruders on his balcony. Just as he begins the pull back to check on Sherlock, John sees Milverton look up from his computer and sit back in his chair, a gut-churningly pleasant smile lifting the sides of his mouth. John taps at Sherlock’s arm behind him and leans closer to the door; through the glass and velvet, he can just make out Milverton’s curling, coiling, slithering voice.

            “You’re late.”


	11. Chapter 11

            Arms wrapped around her middle, her head still swathed in a scarf, the woman from the roof slowly steps into the room. Her heels sink infinitesimally into the plush carpet, but her knees beneath the hem of her skirt are firm and unshaking.

            “No matter,” says Milverton, simpering and condescending and cruel. “You say you’ve come into some sensitive emails regarding some particularly wealthy men.” His smile broadens. “Don’t worry, I don’t care how you came to have them – only that you’re interested in selling.”

            The woman says nothing, bowing her head in a demure gesture which entirely belies the pride in her step and the strength of the woman who’d been dropped off on the roof by helicopter.

            “Quiet one, eh?” Milverton’s lip curls on one side, and John fights the urge to both retch, and punch him in the nose. “I like that. Shows reserve, a certain quality of – respect. Well, don’t worry – I’ll know just how to use your findings best, and I assure you, I pay _handsomely_ to those kind enough to add to my store.” He leans forward in his chair, linking his fingers beneath his chin. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to hand them over so I can have a bit of a look…”

            But the woman does not comply. In lieu of an answer, she raises her head and, with two, composed flicks of her wrist, pushes away the scarf, revealing a proud face and short, coal-black hair, offset by a pair of dark eyes. Milverton’s smile slides off his face, replaced not by anger, but by a deep-seated, spine-chilling _fear._ The expression sits unfamiliar on his features, the fat lips downturned, the wiry rims of his glasses suddenly fragile with the loss of his usual composure.

            “No,” he says simply, soft enough that it’s almost lost under the wind still scudding around the two men on the balcony. “It’s not you.”

            “My husband is dead,” says the woman, her voice steady, if infused with rage and grief. “He overdosed last night.”

            Belatedly, Milverton’s eyebrows jerk upwards, and a hint of resolve works its way into his cheeks and the line of his mouth. “Well, that’s hardly any business of _mine,”_ he drawls. “All I did was encourage a few little rumours –”

            “Rumours?” repeats the woman, cold and unruffled, an icy reflection of Milverton’s own cruelty. “You _made them up_ with the explicit purpose of extorting money from me.”

            “Money I never got, by the way, which I’m still a little cut by. And besides, if _he_ was willing to believe them, he obviously thought they were a little more than –” His mocking retort is cut off by the discreet handgun the woman untucks from beneath her crossed arms, pointing it steadily at Milverton’s face. His expression turns sour, hardening. “So you’re going to shoot me then, is that it?” he says. “Entirely ignoring the fact that my security could get here a lot faster than you can get away.”

            “I don’t care,” the woman replies, and she says it so simply, so calmly, that John can’t help but be impressed; she really _doesn’t care._

            “Oh, but think of your wonderful career!” Milverton sneers. “Isn’t that worth _anything_ to you?”

            “It’s worth almost everything,” she says. “Unfortunately for you – this is the only situation where that _almost_ comes into play.”

            Milverton’s expression falls back into fear-tinged resolve. “You won’t shoot me,” he says, less sure than she.

            “Wanna bet?”

            Though the voices from within the room have been muffled, the gunshots are anything but. As the first one rings out, practically shaking the glass of the windows, John can’t help but feel the instinctive urge to leap forward – to charge into battle, to inspect the wounded, to make use of the fresh burst of adrenaline suddenly leaping through his veins. Sherlock’s hand on his arm holds him back, though, both their gazes fixed on the woman currently putting bullet after bullet into the man behind the desk. After four to the face, she changes tact, waiting for the body to slide obliquely to the floor before emptying the final five rounds into his chest and stomach, each shot piercing the air even outside the brightly-lit room.

            By the time she’s finished, Milverton is unrecognisable, his shattered glasses mingling with the rest of his simpering features and his wide torso a bloody, punctured mess. Sherlock’s grip on John’s arm goes tight, and in the sliver of light seeping from the room, his face has gone a little bit grey. As steady as ever, the woman strides up to the body and stands there for moment, looking down at the destroyed face with an expression of absolute repulsion. She lifts one foot, grinding the toe of her shoe into his forehead, then steps back with a satisfied sigh. As she turns to leave, she spares a glance for the gap in the curtain, her face stony and, in a roundabout way, strangely encouraging.

            Then she tucks the gun in her pocket, winds the scarf back around her head, and leaves. Above, the thudding roar of the helicopter begins anew; from below, John thinks he can hear the rising clamour of a shouted alarm.

            Without a word, Sherlock snatches up the violin and tears open the balcony door, sweeping the curtain out of the way and stepping gingerly around Milverton’s mangled body. John follows at his heels, the sound of voices suddenly a lot clearer now they’re back in the building.

            “Get the doors,” Sherlock snaps, leaning over the computer. Without hesitation, John marches out into the waiting room and slams shut the door leading into the wide, empty hall. He retreats back to the office, likewise shutting them in, then spins on his heel to face the detective, studiously ignoring the dead body.

            “Sherlock?” he asks; a request for orders.

            “The safe,” says the detective, fumbling now with the violin case on the desk. “Don’t worry about finding the articles, just take everything and burn it, _burn everything!”_

            More than happy to oblige, John plucks an empty wastepaper basket from behind Milverton’s desk and sets it next to the violin, catching a welcome glimpse of a cigarette lighter as Sherlock tosses it out of the same compartment from which he finally pulls the virus-laden USB. But when John tugs on the door of the safe, it resists, rattling in place and refusing to open. Apparently half-latched is as good as locked, and with the shouting of guards sounding ever closer, there’s no time for Sherlock to crack it again.

            “Fair warning, Sherlock,” says John, voice low and calm, as he takes a step back from the safe and pulls out his gun. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

            Sherlock looks up just in time to watch him switch off the safety and fire at the visible edge of the latch, causing the detective to flinch back at the noise and the sudden change in plan. Once, twice John shoots, the metal denting and caving beneath the heat and pressure; thrice, and with a higher-pitched _clang,_ the door swings open and John darts forward once more, tucking away the gun. As Sherlock shakes himself and taps at the blood-spattered keyboard, John empties the shelves and drawers before him, throwing everything into the wastepaper basket, squashing it down to make room for more. By the time Sherlock’s ripped out the memory stick, more than half the documents have been crammed into the bin, and John still has plenty more to go. Sherlock, taking up the lighter, sets fire to what’s there, then throws both lighter and memory stick into the violin case before turning to John.

            “Torches,” he says, holding out both hands. Hardly breaking stride, John slides both torches from his pockets and tosses them over to Sherlock, who once more stows them away under the violin. “And the digital backups?”

            “In here somewhere, they must be…” John murmurs, still indiscriminately pouring the paper bundles into the small inferno contained within the basket. Sherlock tugs open the few drawers of Milverton’s desk, but finds nothing, just as a loud hammering sounds on the outer door of the waiting room. Sherlock and John freeze for just a second, catching each other’s eye and returning swiftly to work.

            “Here!” John shouts, pulling a mid-sized velvet bag from one of the drawers of the safe. It rattles as he throws it to Sherlock, who deftly catches it and tugs open the drawstring to reveal a small collection of USBs and external hard drives. He tosses the bag into the violin case and looks up at John.

            “Any more?”

            “No, that’s it,” John pants, coughing as the smoke from the burning packets begins to fill the room. He pulls a last handful of papers from the safe, one arm pressed to his nose and mouth. “That’s it, it’s empty.”

            “You’re sure?” asks Sherlock. The shouting and footsteps are closer now, voices resolving into intelligible calls for them to halt as the door handle rattles.

            “‘Course I’m fucking sure!” John shouts into his elbow, throwing the final lot of papers into the fire and rounding the desk. “Now let’s _go!”_

            Without hesitation, Sherlock zips shut the violin case and follows John back out on the balcony, slamming the door shut behind them. They stop there for a moment, leaning on their knees and coughing the smoke from their lungs before straightening and glancing at each other with determination in their eyes.

            “The ladder?” says John.

            “The ladder.”

            Sherlock goes first, handing the violin case to John and jumping across the gap with far less preamble than before. He scrambles down the rungs, jumping the last half-dozen to the balcony below, then holds up his arms for the violin which John tosses down at the same time as the office door crashes open.

            With a litany of curses, John mounts the railing and throws himself into the air, barely looking before he leaps. He crashes into the ladder, losing his grip momentarily and sliding halfway down before managing to slow his descent. Above them, the balcony door is ripped open, and John leaps the last few feet to the concrete below.

            Instead of following the branch of fire escape ladder to the left, Sherlock has climbed over the railing on the right and is dropping down to the balcony below, leaving the violin case for John. Shouts and orders filter down to them through the pummelling wind, but John pays them no heed, again dropping the violin to Sherlock and clambering to jump down beside him.

            A shrill, steady alarm pierces the air.

            “How much further?” John shouts as Sherlock passes the violin to him and clears another railing.

            “At least another few floors,” Sherlock pants in return, not meeting his eye before lowering himself to the edge of the balcony and dropping down. Once more, he’s followed by first the violin, then John, the staggered pattern of the balconies allowing them to clear the storeys with ease.

            “And then?” John asks, continuing the conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted by them both dropping down through several feet of nothing to a concrete balcony.

            “Then we get back into the building and to the emergency stairs.”

            “Won’t there be guards there?”

            Again, Sherlock falls out of sight, and John throws first the violin, then himself, after him.

            “Hopefully they’ll all be focusing on the lifts, the thirtieth floor, the roof,” Sherlock babbles, breathless. “We should be able to make it back to the ground almost unseen, they haven’t got that many people.”

            They drop down another three floors, John’s knees and ankles jarring with every successive impact, before Sherlock tightens his grip on the violin and refuses to meet John’s eyes, pulling open the door before them and slipping into the dark room beyond. John follows, the room resolving into a wide, open space filled with rows and rows of desks, the alarm sounding even louder inside the building before it suddenly shuts off, and silence blankets them. Before Sherlock can make it more than a few steps, John drags him back, holding his arm tight and spinning him around as he pulls his gun out from under his jacket.

            “Let me go first,” he whispers, and though his chest is heaving and his whole body is tense with fear, Sherlock can see the determination in his eyes behind the mask, and nods through his panting breaths. John slips his hand down to grip Sherlock’s, then moves smoothly into a half-crouch, darting between desks toward the far corner, leading with the gun, his left hand pulling Sherlock’s right. When they reach the entrance – a wide, empty doorway – John releases Sherlock’s hand and swiftly raises his gun, covering the darkened area without.

            “Empty,” he breathes, stalking forward and immediately regretting it as the long, narrow hall floods with light, blinding him with its sudden severity. _“Shit.”_

            A single shout rings out at the far end of the corridor, and a tall, black-clad security guard appears around the corner, alerted by the activated lights. He rushes forward, taking advantage of John’s momentary debilitation and throwing him to the floor, the gun skittering away across the linoleum. As John blinks and groans and pushes onto his elbows, the guard focuses instead on the more imposing length of Sherlock, darting out of the room after John. The violin case falls to the floor with a heavy thud; Sherlock manages to duck two punches and deflect a third, landing one of his own before the guard’s hands wrap around his long, pale throat, forcing him back against the wall.

            _“J-hn –”_

            Sherlock’s gloved fingers scrabble at the guard’s hands, his attempts to fight back growing steadily weaker. Within seconds, though, John is back on his feet and latching one elbow around the guard’s neck from behind, struggling to pull him away.

            _“Let him go –”_ he growls, fighting to ignore Sherlock’s panicked gaze.

            “Or what?” snaps the guard, paying the doctor no heed.

            As Sherlock’s head falls back against the wall, his breath coming in aborted, choked-off wheezes, John disengages from the guard and steps deftly to his left. With a single kick to the side of the guard’s knee, the man buckles, his hands falling from Sherlock’s throat as he tries and fails to stumble upright, his legs giving out beneath him and sending tumbling back onto the floor. John is on him in moments, and with three, perfunctory blows, exacts his revenge and knocks him out.

             Silence falls, apart from Sherlock’s heaving, gasping, coughing breaths. John turns to him, glancing over his shoulder and half-turning away from the guard, one hand still planted on the unconscious man’s chest.

            “Are you okay?” he pants.

            Sherlock waves his hand, trying to dismiss him, but any words he tries to say only come out as meaningless chokes of air. John pushes himself to his feet and steps forward, gripping Sherlock by the arms and pulling him upright.

            “Let me see,” he orders. Sherlock shakes his head, his long fingers cradling his neck.

            “‘m fine,” he wheezes.

            _“Let me see,”_ John snaps, pushing away Sherlock’s hands. With a firm grip on his chin, John tilts Sherlock’s head from side to side, inspecting his abused neck. He pokes and prods at Sherlock’s throat, doctor’s fingers gentle and sure, as Sherlock swallows and gasps, but gives up his struggles.

            After a moment, John lets out a small, relieved breath. “No serious damage,” he says, though his voice is still grave. “It’ll probably bruise though,” he continues, his eyes darting up to catch Sherlock’s gaze. “But I guess you’ve got your scarf for that.”

            Sherlock wearily throws him off, swiping his hands away and ducking out of his grip. He leans against the wall as his breathing slows, swallowing again and pressing the backs of his fingers to his neck with a wince. John watches him carefully, but doesn’t intervene, as Sherlock picks up the violin and stares at the incapacitated guard.

            “Thank you,” he mutters flatly as John turns away to retrieve his gun.

            “My pleasure,” comes the deadpan reply. “Where to now?”

            “This way,” Sherlock breathes, reaching for John’s hand and tugging him along. Past five locked doors and around a bend, the lights along the corridor flicker into life as they approach, throwing their shadows behind them. At the end of the hall, another empty doorway opens up on their left through which Sherlock drags them both, pulling John around the corner and into another of the large, desk-lined spaces.

            “Forward, to that doorway,” says Sherlock between breaths, letting go of John’s hand to point out a shadow in the wall at the far end of the room, lost in various shades of darkness. They both run forward, parting around a row of desks, Sherlock pulling ahead on his long legs. Just as they reach the open doorway, muffled voices sound nearby, close enough to make John leap forward and physically drag Sherlock across the room until they’re flattened against the wall beside the entrance. He readies his weapon and darts forward, anticipating the bright sting of the lights and using it to scan the hall. To his surprise, they’re back at the lifts, the little T-shaped corridor devoid of life.

            “Clear,” he whispers to Sherlock, glancing up at the ceiling through which he thinks the voices are reaching them. Sherlock flashes past him, tapping at his arm as he goes by and wrenching open the door to the emergency stairs.

            In they go, no longer bothering with subtlety, the door crashing behind them and their clattering footsteps echoing back and forth between the empty, concrete walls. They make it down six flights of stairs before metal creaks far above them, accompanied by the clamour of shouting voices.

            “I can hear them!” yells one, rising above the din of the rest and giving the mess of noise a direction, focusing it into one approaching mess of sound.

            “Come on, come on,” John mutters, flying around another bend after Sherlock and not stopping to look or listen, focused only on the task of running, running, _getting out._

            Five floors later and the din from above, coming closer with every corner, is accompanied by a new wave of noise as, somewhere below, another door crashes open and emits a small swarm of guards, all shouting at once – “Can you see ‘em?” “That’s gotta be them!” “Just _go!”_

            “Out, out, out!” Sherlock barks, grabbing John’s wrist and dragging him through the nearest door half a flight down, marked by a large, black ‘11’. He forces the door shut behind them, clearly hoping that the echoes of the concrete within will be enough to mask where they abandoned the path.

            “This way,” says Sherlock, slipping his gloved hand into John’s and tugging him down a long, blank corridor, past the lifts, until they reach a door on the right, automatic lights flashing into life as they go. “This should be it,” Sherlock pants, releasing John and crouching down, fumbling with the violin case. “Come on, come on –”

            Giving in to instinct, John moves so his back is to the wall beside Sherlock, his gun raised and his eyes raking from side to side, pricking his ears at the approaching echoes from the stairwell. Finally, Sherlock whips out the master key card and shuts the case, ripping the card through the reader beside the door and sagging with relief as the cheerful double-beep sounds and the door successfully unlocks. He barges through, tucking the card into his pocket and leaving John to slam the door behind them as Sherlock bounds across the room to a pair of familiar glass doors.

            John turns to the room – a simple, modern office containing two working spaces and a sizeable corkboard covered in papers – at the same time as Sherlock curses, the balcony door resisting his harsh rattling. Glancing around, John tucks away his gun and picks up a heavy, metal chair from the corner.

            “Out of the way,” he growls, lifting the chair to his shoulder and stalking forward. Sherlock glances once over his shoulder and leaps away, covering his face as John sends the chair legs crashing through the single glass pane of one door. He rummages around with the chair for a moment, scraping away the ragged edges of the glass, then tosses it lightly aside. “Give me the case,” he snaps, snatching the violin from Sherlock as he passes on his way to the balcony.

            Outside, the wind seems to have lessened in force, though it’s no less cold, and glass crunches underfoot. To one side of the balcony is another branch of the fire escape ladder, and John feels grateful on behalf of his knees when Sherlock climbs over the railing and swings onto the metal rungs, scrambling to the balcony below. John drops the violin into Sherlock’s waiting arms and hurries after him, unsurprised to be greeted by only the violin and Sherlock’s flapping tails. As he again throws down the case, the faint glow of the interior lights reaches under the door of the room adjoining the balcony, and John scrabbles down the ladder in time to grab Sherlock’s arm before he can move away.

            “They’re up there,” he gasps, nodding in the direction of the balcony above. “The lights came on, they’re looking there.”

            “One more floor, then we’ll go back into the building,” Sherlock replies under his breath, swallowing. “Looks like they’ve checked these ones.” He tilts his head in the direction of the balcony doors, and John sees a faint light seeping into the room on the other side.

            True to Sherlock’s word, they climb down one more floor before ducking back into the building, finding the balcony door mercifully unlocked. They’re admitted into a huge, L-shaped room that seems to take up almost the entire level, separated into dozens of cubicles, lined against each wall with one, narrow corridor running between them. The lights along the rows are already on, and there’s only one way forward. They set off at a sprint, skidding around two corners and out into the familiar T of the lift and perpendicular corridors, along with the requisite, welcoming sight of the emergency stairs. Sherlock stops before the door, holding his ear to the metal and listening to the muffled echoes beyond. After a moment, he steps back and wrenches open the door.

            The minute they enter the stairwell, a cry rings out high above them – “Downstairs! I heard something!” – and the clamour from afar rises in volume, hammering footfalls and breathless shouts bouncing off the concrete and confusing all accurate estimations of distance.

            “Go, _go!”_ Sherlock shouts, leaping down the stairs two at a time, the violin swinging wildly from his hand. As he runs, John pulls out his gun again, the familiar weight serving to soothe his hammering heart and focus his gaze. As they go clattering down past the floors, John can feel the triumph building in his chest – _nearly there,_ he repeats in his head, in time with his panting, searing breaths; _nearly there, nearly there, nearly there._

            When he sees a bold, black number two go flitting past, John skids to a halt halfway down the next flight of stairs and leans out over the railing. He checks above them, seeing hands on the banister only a few floors up but no heads peeking over the edges. Content with the relative lack of risk, John ignores Sherlock’s frenzied demands and raises his gun between the spiralling handrails, pointing up at the roof. He looses two, steady shots, and is rewarded with a loud, collective scream from above and the immediate ceasing of footfalls. Turning back to the stairs, he sprints down after Sherlock.

            “Just buying us some time,” he mutters as he passes the detective and nearly falls over his own feet in the final rush for the ground floor.

            “There’ll be someone waiting –” Sherlock pants, “at the bottom –”

            “I’ll hold ’em back,” John returns, equally breathless. “You get the door.”

            True to his word, John doesn’t hesitate as he reaches the final door, wrenching it open and darting out into corridor beyond, barely recognisable now that it’s no longer swathed in shadow. He takes stock of the situation in seconds – three guards, one by the service door, one lingering near the lifts, and the last at the other end of the hall, watching the lobby. Before they can react – before Sherlock has even followed him out of the stairwell – John latches onto the guard by the door and drags him out of the way, knocking him out with a single blow and throwing the limp body at the woman by the lifts. Behind him, Sherlock fumbles with the key card and punches in the PIN (oh-five-six-three-eight, John’s brain throws up, as he fends off the second guard and knocks her out with the butt of his gun). Then Sherlock is shouting, and there’s a draught at his back, and John takes aim just above the shoulder of the final, approaching guard and shoots. The man drops to the floor in fright and shock, leaving John to turn and scramble after Sherlock, out of the building and into the cold night air.


	12. Chapter 12

            Outside, the air is cool and the silence brief but deafening. John has only a moment to enjoy the lack of hammering footsteps and raised voices before the wail of a police siren howls to his right. He glances over at the flashing lights visible through the chain-link fence at the end of the alley.

            “This way!” cries Sherlock from somewhere to his left. John turns just in time to catch the violin case flying in his direction, running after Sherlock as he launches himself at the high grey wall. The detective barely manages to get a grip on the top and hauls himself up, his expensive shoes scrabbling at the bricks. When he’s finally straddling the wall, John throws the violin after him, waiting as he sets it down well behind him and leans forward again, holding out his arms. John takes two steps back, sizing up the wall and shaking his head, his breath searing at his lungs.

            “Oh, for God’s s–”

            John tucks his gun away in his pocket and, mustering all his remaining strength, takes a running leap at the wall, throwing his arms up and still managing to miss the top by almost a foot. He doesn’t fall, though, Sherlock’s outstretched hands fumbling for his and clinging below his wrists as his body slams into the bricks. John twists his hands around and grasps Sherlock’s arms in return, scrambling for a foothold as they both give an almighty heave. Sherlock pulls John up to the top of the wall, but just as he locks his arms over the bricks, a loud metal _clang_ sounds behind them, and the service entrance bursts open.

            “HEY!”

            Cursing, John tries desperately to pull himself over the wall, but all too soon, there’s a hand on his ankle and his hands are slipping. Sherlock lets out a strangled yell, tugging at John’s shoulders as the doctor kicks out with his free foot, managing to connect with his attacker’s nose. John locks his fearful gaze with Sherlock’s, and they both pull harder; but despite their combined efforts, John’s arms slide out of Sherlock’s grip as the guard pulls him down with ease, sending them both tumbling to the asphalt.

            _“JOHN!”_ Sherlock screams, leaning precariously over the wall, one hand steadying himself as the other strains for his friend.

            “Go!” John shouts, even as he rolls off the guard, glancing up at Sherlock, now barely astride the wall. The guard lunges after him, tackling him back to the ground and sending a fist at John’s face. He retaliates with an elbow to the man’s jaw and throws him off, looking again to Sherlock in the momentary opening. _“Go!”_

            With a final, terrified glance, Sherlock grabs the violin and disappears over the wall, swinging his legs around and sliding out of sight with a flash of his tails. John has no time to linger: a second later, the guard is back on him, struggling to hold his arms down and restrain him long enough for backup to arrive and subdue him entirely.

            John refuses to let that happen.

            Using the guard’s bulk against him, John pushes up at his attacker, rolling them until the guard has his back to the ground. A knee connects with John’s gut, and he throws two punches in return. A hand flies for his face, but he breaks the wrist before it can make contact, using the opening to backhand the guard and reach for his gun. Before he can raise it properly though, the guard surges up toward him, grabbing his right arm to hold back the weapon and elbowing John in the chest. Despite the pain blooming in his ribs, John reaches out to hold back the guard’s free arm at the same time as he brings his knee crashing down into the man’s diaphragm. Winded, the guard’s grip slackens just enough for John to free his arm and promptly pistol-whip the man into unconsciousness.

            At the street-side end of the alley, more police cars are assembling, and John can hear raised voices and shouted orders. Above him, Appledore Tower is a beacon in the night, thrumming with life as the authorities seek out the intruders.

            Not waiting for more guards to make their way to the service entrance, John takes one glance over his shoulder and immediately dismisses the idea of trying to make it over the back wall of the alley. He scrambles to his feet, curling momentarily over his bruised ribs, and tucks his gun into his cummerbund as he staggers past the limousine and to the chain-link fence. On the other side, police are swarming into the building through the lobby, the lights from the cars and building flooding over the street and eliminating the shadows that used to hide the mouth of the alley from view.

             Taking barely a moment to regain his breath, John throws a final glance at the officers milling outside the building and pulls himself up onto the fence, climbing it with significantly more ease than the brick at the other end. It isn’t until he’s swung himself over the top and begun his descent that the high, metallic shivering attracts the attention of one of the policemen on the street. A warning shout rings out, and a dozen faces turn toward John as he drops the last four feet to the ground and stumbles into a run. Behind him, shouts and footsteps begin to follow, and he puts on a burst of speed, calling to mind Sherlock’s instructions and swinging around the first corner he reaches: the first alleyway on the left.

            Sherlock was right. The alley, despite its twists and turns and occasional side entrances, leads more or less directly back to a familiar, boarded-up fence, a pile of bins and rubbish forming a convenient series of steps to the top of the wall. John leaps up them, kicking the final bin out of the way as he mounts the fence. He holds himself in place on top of the boards with one hand and uses the other to pull out his gun as a dozen or so police and security guards round the final bend far behind. Deliberately aiming above their heads, John fires three shots into the alley, and his pursuers throw themselves to the ground in fear.

            With a fleeting, slightly manic grin, John twists around and scrambles down the other side of the fence, dropping the last two feet into a crouch before throwing himself into a run and not looking back. He sprints through the darkened construction site, darting between vaguely familiar piles of bricks and beams and avoiding anything resembling an office or floodlight. Sherlock may have had the place memorised, but John now relies only on instinct to get him through unnoticed and at least relatively unscathed. His blood pounds in his ears and his breath tears at his throat as he runs, the gun the perfect weight in his hand and his muscles singing with adrenaline. His own body is so loud that he doesn’t hear the scuffle of approaching footsteps until he rounds an abandoned forklift and barrels headfirst into a tall, dark-haired figure.

            “John!” Sherlock gasps as he stumbles back, wild-eyed and trembling with exertion and fear. “I heard gunshots, are you –”

            “It was me, I’m fine,” John pants in return, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and tugging him around, pushing him back the way he came. “Just keep going, we need to get out of here.”

            “How did you make it so far without getting caught?” Sherlock asks between breaths, glancing down at his friend.

            “You learn a thing or two in a warzone, Sherlock,” John replies. “Instinct,” he adds, when Sherlock continues to frown. “It helps sometimes.”

            From there on, they remain silent apart from their harsh breaths, Sherlock leading the way through the twisting maze of construction until they reach the outer fence. Sherlock goes first, passing the violin case to John as he climbs up and fumbles with the wooden board on the other side, sliding it out of the way and swinging himself over the top before holding out his hands for the case. Within seconds, John has tucked away his gun and joined him, and they’re slotting the board firmly back into place.

            “Where to now?” John whispers between heaving breaths as Sherlock picks up the violin case and glances around them.

            “This way,” he hisses, tugging once at John’s arm and running away from the lights of Euston Road. He leads them on a twisting, turning route through the streets, primarily alleys and back roads, that seems to be heading in no particular direction, zig-zagging and spiralling and doubling-back on itself until John has lost all sense of direction. Sherlock, on the other hand, knows exactly where they’re going. His mental map of London doesn’t fail him, and he never hesitates before turning a corner or ducking in and out of dingy, unlit alleyways. At one point, they cut across the middle of Regent’s Park, disappearing amidst the silent, eerie shadows and then bursting out onto the street again at the other end. They remain in the light for just a moment before diving back into the hidden shadows of the city, turning away from Baker Street in another confusing circuit.

            Eventually, Sherlock stumbles to a halt in a long, impossibly narrow lane between two tall rows of houses, not even wide enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side. Lowering the violin case to the ground, he shuffles around until he can fall back against the bricks, his feet in one gutter and his back against the wall over the other. John, his chest heaving and his vision swimming just slightly, positions himself against the wall opposite, curling over what feels like three and a half stitches and slowing his breath down from its desperate rasp. They stay like that for a minute, gasping and swallowing, their legs trembling slightly in the cold night air. John’s stitches fade enough for him to straighten just a little, wincing and resting his hands on his thighs. Sherlock shifts his weight on his aching feet, gulping down air.

            High above them, a low growl of thunder rolls back and forth across the city.

            Without warning, Sherlock begins to laugh.

            It starts as just a hitch in his throat, barely distinguishable from his panting breaths. John glances up from under his sweaty brow as the hitch resolves into a breathless chuckle, and, helpless to resist, immediately joins in. Sherlock’s laugh turns from a gasp to a deep, throaty rumble as John bends over, hands on his knees, his chest heaving. Just as their chuckles begin to fade, Sherlock glances down at the same time as John looks up, and all of a sudden, the absolute absurdity of what they’ve done comes crashing home. Peals of laughter echo up and down the lane, and John giggles and giggles until he’s all but hissing through his teeth, doubling over and shaking his head at the both of them, his eyes watering, unable to breathe. Sherlock’s chuckles lose all sound until the only indications of his mirth are his wide grin and his silently trembling shoulders. Growing steadily weaker, his body crumples, and he leans forward until his head rests on John’s shoulder opposite.

            “Jesus Christ, you’re insane,” John chuckles breathlessly into Sherlock’s ear, dropping his head and failing to gain control of himself. Sherlock gasps for a second, trying to regain enough breath to speak.

            “A madman’s a rather poor judge of sanity, wouldn’t you say?” he mutters, turning his head slightly, the tail end of his sentence lost amidst a fresh wave of laughter.

            Expelling the contents of his already-empty lungs, John gasps out a renewed, soundless cackle, shaking his head. His mouth seems to be forming the word ‘no’, but not even a whisper of breath sounds it out, and for a second, he is completely and utterly silent but for a few, helpless squeaks in his chest. When he finally manages to suck in a breath, it’s only to fuel more wheezing laughter as he pulls away to look at Sherlock straight on. Sensing the movement, Sherlock rolls his forehead against John’s shoulder until he can just catch his eye, beaming madly, his icy iris just visible behind the mask.

            “Oh God, we’re completely mad,” John breathes, grinning, as he lets himself slide down the wall to the sodden asphalt, fatigue finally overcoming adrenaline. Sherlock follows, his knees bending smoothly beneath him and his exhausted, gangly form turning and curling over to keep his forehead resting on John’s shoulder. Their laughs finally subside, replaced by heavy, heaving breaths and the occasional hiccupping giggle. A small, slightly hysterical smile remains on John’s face as he lets his head fall to the side, his cheek coming to rest against Sherlock’s hair. He’s far too ragged to care, though; too comfortable to bother moving for appearances’ sake. He could stay here all night, with the damp seeping through his trousers and his ruined dinner jacket catching on the brick, Sherlock’s knuckles pressed against his ribs and the corner of the curb digging into the small of his back. Already the dark fingers of drowsiness are beginning to creep up behind his eyelids.

_One misstep,_ John thinks – one underestimated leap or unblocked punch – and it would all have been over, every mad adventure brought to a humiliating end. Sherlock is limp and warm at his side, and they are both gloriously alive, and it is with a ridiculous note of reverence that John manages to speak.

            “We made it,” he whispers, his slowing breaths stirring up Sherlock’s damp curls. “We fucking made it, Sherlock.”

            Somewhere beneath his chin, Sherlock’s eyes fall closed and his breath rushes out of his lungs with the realisation. “Yes John,” he sighs in return. “We made it.”


	13. Chapter 13

            They lean on each other for a long while, breathing in and out of sync as they let their bodies settle into weariness. Another low rumble of thunder rolls over the city, and John glances up at the growling sky.

            “We should probably get a move on,” he says quietly, dropping his eyes from the clouds. Sherlock hums in response, but says nothing. It seems as if a week’s worth of investigating, memorising and performing an entire concerto, and breaking into a high-security office building have finally caught up with him as his head lolls against John’s shoulder, his breath rasping a little in his throat. Normally he delays his post-case collapses until they reach Baker Street; but then again, this is hardly a normal return home.

            “Come on.” John shrugs his shoulder a little, jolting Sherlock’s head. The detective seems to come to his senses and sits up suddenly, clearing his throat and blinking hard. He disguises a yawn by stretching out his jaw and leans over to drag the violin closer.

            “Here,” he says, his voice slurring just slightly, as he hands over the case. “The digital copies still need to be dealt with.”

            “And how are we going to do that?” John asks, unzipping the case and pulling out the little velvet bag.

            “Remember that hammer I asked you to buy?”

            John glances up, meeting Sherlock’s eye. He sighs. “No wonder the thing’s so bloody heavy,” he mutters sullenly, digging into the compartment under the violin and extracting the medium-sized hammer he’d bought not twelve hours earlier. He hands the violin back to Sherlock and sits up, shifting onto his knees and dropping the bag to the ground. He lifts the hammer, then pauses.

           “Nothing in here you want to keep?” he asks, raising his eyes to Sherlock’s. “Look over?”

           Sherlock shakes his head. “There won’t be anything important in there,” he says. “Just private secrets, most of them stolen. The original owners won’t mind.”

           John nods in agreement, and hefts the hammer in hand. “Here goes,” he mutters.

           The hard drives and memory sticks snap easily under the blows, crunching and cracking apart. John strikes again and again, Sherlock watching impassively as the flimsy devices shatter first into great shards, then a mess of splinters, then handfuls of tiny fragments, until the contents of the bag feel more like particularly sharp grains of rice than the remains of hard drives. When the harsh splitting sounds become more like dull, crunching thuds, John sits back and wipes his forehead on his sleeve, setting aside the hammer and opening the bag. He runs his fingers through the mess within, confident that not even the most skilled engineer could piece back together the ruined chips and drives.

           “Now what?” he asks, pulling taut the drawstrings and replacing the hammer under the violin.

           “Empty it into the next bin we pass,” says Sherlock, reaching out for the violin case. “I’ll be surprised if they manage to find it at all, let alone trace the remains back to us.”

           They haul themselves to their feet, groaning and using the walls for leverage. John swears under his breath as his muscles protest the renewed strain, and Sherlock leans briefly against the wall before pushing off and leading the way out of the alley. John upends the bag into a residential bin in St John’s Wood, dropping the empty velvet in after the clattering shards and jogging after Sherlock, who takes them on yet another roundabout route, looping in on itself twice before crossing just close enough to Hampstead Road to hear the sirens and approaching Baker Street from behind. They sprint across the train line just as the thunder overhead begins to crash and the rain to fall, fat, heavy droplets that quickly turn into a downpour. It soaks through their hair and clothes in seconds even as they navigate the fire escape and clamber into the flat through Sherlock’s bedroom window, stumbling immediately into the living room where the heating is strongest. They tear off their masks and gloves and shake out their hair, wiping ineffectually at wet faces with equally wet sleeves. Sherlock grins, tossing the violin onto the couch and joining John in shedding their ruined jackets and toeing out of their shoes.

           “Well, at least that takes care of our footprints,” he says cheerfully, balancing on one leg to peel off his socks as John pulls the gun from the back of his cummerbund and checks the magazine.

           “Two rounds left,” he says, his breath heavy from their scrambling return. He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Ask Mycroft for some more, would you?”

           “Later,” says Sherlock with a wave of his sodden tie which he tosses onto the growing pile in the middle of the rug. “Give me your clothes,” he continues, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I know a very good dry cleaner who might just be able to salvage them for later.”

            John locks the gun away in the desk, chuckling. “You honestly think there’ll be another time I need to wear a _white dinner jacket?”_ he says, fumbling with his tie and cummerbund and adding them to the pile.

            “You never know,” Sherlock shrugs, wriggling out of his trousers. “It _does_ suit you quite well.”

            “You _would_ say that.” John shakes out his cuffs and starts on his shirt buttons. “You bought it, after all.”

            “And for good reason,” Sherlock smirks. John rolls his eyes, but says nothing.

 

            The suits are tossed into a bin bag, along with their shoes and Sherlock’s gloves, the fingertips smeared with blood. While John takes a long, hot shower to rid himself of the dirt and grime of the city, Sherlock lets his hair drip onto the kitchen table as he leans over beakers full of various acids and mentally notes down the different reactions and dissolving times of lengths of black silk. By the time John emerges, pyjama-clad and yawning, the masks have disappeared, and a nondescript van has stopped by to pick up their clothes and whisk them away to be cleaned and patched up. Sherlock takes over the bathroom then, using up enough hot water for a week and leaving John to lift the violin case onto the coffee table and start unpacking the bits and pieces under the instrument.

           Eventually, Sherlock pads into the living room in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, towelling his hair and gathering up his lockpicks as he passes. One by one, the tools are returned to their haphazard places around the flat, and the virus-carrying USB is dropped into a jar of hydrochloric acid and stashed in the fridge to be monitored later. The master key card is cut into pieces and tossed in the bin. Finally, Sherlock fumbles with the latches in the case and reseals the false bottom to reveal his violin. The instrument is lovingly peeled from the blue velvet and replaced in its everyday case, and the new case is zipped up and stored away in the bottom of Sherlock’s wardrobe.

           When Sherlock returns from his room, it is to find John standing in the middle of the rug with a small, rectangular case in his hands. His shoulders are thrown back and his chin raised just slightly, and though he swallows when Sherlock enters the room, he doesn’t falter in crossing the two steps between them and holding out the unassuming box. Sherlock looks down at it, uncomprehending for half an instant before realisation takes hold. His face goes slack, losing the guardedness of confusion, and he takes the case but doesn’t open it. John’s tongue flicks out over his lips, his hands darting to clasp behind his back as soon as they’re empty. He takes a steadying breath.

           “I want you to see it,” he says firmly, his back ramrod straight. “You deserve that.”

           “I earn your trust on this by bringing you along on a high-stakes burglary?” Sherlock asks, then frowns. “No – for something else.” His eyes narrow in thought. “For letting you hear me play.”

           John nods stiffly, but says nothing.

           “I played for an entire audience tonight,” Sherlock continues. “What makes you think you’re special?”

           John looks up at him. “You weren’t playing for the royal family tonight,” he says, a certain softness in his stern gaze.

           “Wasn’t I?” says Sherlock, affecting a playful air of mystery which John sees through immediately.

           “No,” he says, his expression lifting. “You were playing for me. I know you were.”

           Sherlock’s eyes narrow again. “What makes you so sure?”

           “Oh, lots of things,” says John off-handedly. “The part where you almost cut off the circulation in my arm afterwards was a bit of a giveaway.”

           Sherlock says nothing, turning his attention instead to the box in his hands. John’s gaze follows his, then quickly darts to the side, the mischief in his face falling away under the renewed force of his anxiety. With an oddly reverent hand, Sherlock runs his fingertips along the lid of the case, then, with a swift, resolute movement, flips it open.

           His first reaction is to stare. John’s eyes dart up after a moment, flitting between the case and Sherlock’s blank expression and back again, trying to decipher the detective’s inscrutable reaction. His hands tighten behind his back, and when Sherlock brings his long, thin fingers up to brush cautiously against the velvet-cushioned metal within the box, he glances away again, no longer willing to tie himself into knots trying to figure out the workings of Sherlock’s unfathomable mind. Sherlock lingers over the medal long enough that John feels a horrified blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks and ears, but he refuses to back down, stubborn in his decision.

           All of a sudden, Sherlock snaps the case shut and hands it back to John, his eyes trained somewhere above John’s head and his expression blank and distant. “Just official recognition of what I already knew,” he says, and if his voice is a little bit lost, neither man mentions it.

           “And what’s that?” asks John, licking his lips and looking at the case in his hands. Sherlock glances down at him.

           “You’re a hero, John Watson.”

           John smirks to one side. “I thought heroes didn’t exist,” he teases, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to recognise the humour.

           “Exactly,” is his cryptic reply.

 

           By sunrise, everything is back in its proper place, and John has woken from an hour-long nap to return downstairs for some breakfast. Sherlock is passed out on the sofa, his long legs sprawled over the armrest and one hand resting, half-curled, against the dull wood of the floor. His toes and lips are an alarming shade of blue, and the bruises blooming on his neck stand out garishly against his pale skin. John scowls, retrieving the blanket from the back of his armchair and tossing it over Sherlock’s lanky form. He takes a moment to crouch next to the sofa and listen to Sherlock’s breathing, peering carefully at his throat; when no wheezes or irregularities make themselves heard, he’s content with the knowledge that the superficial bruises are probably the worst of the damage.

           John heads for the kitchen, fully intending to spend a good long while over a cup of tea. He fills the kettle, his gait a little stiff-legged from the exertion of the night before, and opens the cupboard, sighing. Of course the only clean mugs left are at the back of the top shelf. John rolls his eyes in resignation, then reaches up with his left hand, stretching out and fumbling for the handle of a mug when –

           “Ah, _fuck!”_

           A sudden, stabbing pain explodes in his left side, cutting off his breath and radiating out from his ribs in a network of twinges across his front. He staggers back into the kitchen table, curling over his chest, as the mug is dragged from the shelf and crashes to the floor. The sound wakes Sherlock, who lets out a noise halfway between a mumble and a shout, and looks up to see John trapped in the kitchen by a flood of smashed porcelain, doubled over and struggling to breathe.

           “John?” he calls, fumbling his way out of the blankets and sending them a confused frown which redoubles when there’s no response. “John! What’s happened, are you all right?”

           He leaps from the sofa and into the kitchen, hesitating at the edge of the mess of ex-mug. John waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, despite the grimace on his face.

           “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he gasps as Sherlock grabs the broom from the corner and sweeps the porcelain shards out of his way. John straightens up a little, squeezing his eyes shut and wincing through deliberately slow, controlled breaths. “I’m _fine,”_ he repeats, batting at Sherlock’s fingers as they begin to paw at the hand pressed against his ribs. “Just – caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

           “Caught you by surprise?” Sherlock parrots in disbelief. “What the hell happened?”

           John swallows and shifts his weight onto his feet, stretching his back with another pained grimace. “Bloke in the alley,” he explains. “Got an elbow in my ribs at one point. Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. Just overstretched it suddenly…”

           Sherlock levels him with a glare. “I hope you paid him back in turn,” he says severely, and John chuckles, shaking his head.

           “I broke his wrist and probably his nose, and I’m pretty sure he’s got a hell of a headache.” He smirks, and adds a sarcastic, “He’ll rue the day he crossed me, I promise.” Straightening up further, he tucks his left hand under his shirt and presses at his ribs, inspecting the area with professional detachment. Sherlock’s eyes flit back and forth from the shifting lump under the black and white stripes to the doctor’s screwed-up face.

           “Yup,” John concludes, pulling out his hand. “No breaks, no fractures. Just a hell of a bruise.”

           “Let me see,” Sherlock demands. John’s eyebrows shoot up.

           “What, don’t you trust my judgement?”

           “Doctors _do_ make the worst patients,” Sherlock counters, ignoring John’s glare.

           “Sherlock, I’m a trained medical professional,” he glowers. “The only knowledge you have of broken bones is through experience and corpses, and, forgive me, but I’m optimistic enough that that won’t help.”

_“Let me see,”_ Sherlock insists. Sighing, John rolls his eyes and lifts his shirt up to his neck; Sherlock’s eyes go wide and his lips part just slightly. John frowns at him in inquiry, then looks down at his chest.

           “Oh.”

           His entire front is more or less one extensive, mottled bruise. Various shades of yellow, purple, red and black are splashed across his chest and abdomen, culminating in the dark, angry swelling around the last few of his left-hand-side ribs. John lets out a long, low breath that clearly admits that it’s worse than he thought, and Sherlock raises three tentative fingers in front of him, too hesitant to actually touch the bruising, but fascinated and horrified all the same. His pale fingers look even more white against the purple background of John’s chest. Swatting him away with a roll of his eyes, John reaches out to press at his bruised ribs once more. He hisses and winces, but comes away looking confident enough.

           “Nothing serious,” he says, rolling down his shirt.

           “You’re sure?” says Sherlock.

           “Positive.” John takes the broom from him and resumes sweeping up the broken mug. “Get down some mugs, will you?”

 

           Over tea, John interrogates Sherlock about his breathing, prodding at the bruises on his neck and making him swear to tell John if he has any trouble speaking or swallowing. In an act of exasperated spite, Sherlock extracts a promise that John won’t play the wounded dog and retreat to lick his wounds should his bruised ribs turn out to be more sinister than they appear; to which John rolls his eyes and reluctantly agrees.

           After digging out some ibuprofen, John, for the good of his body clock, decides to stay awake. Sherlock, on the other hand, crashes back onto the sofa despite the tea, promptly falling asleep and ignoring any and all of John’s attempts to get him to wake up.

           Instead, the doctor turns the telly down low and sets up camp in Sherlock’s armchair, getting breakfast with slow, careful movements so as not to overtax his ribs again. He settles in front of the morning news with a book and laptop close at hand, but doesn’t pay it much attention, focusing instead on his toast, until a familiar name catches his ear.

           “Fifty-two year old Charles Milverton,” the newsreader is saying, “award-winning journalist and editor and media tycoon, was gunned down in his private office on Hampstead Road just after midnight last night, after apparently meeting with an unknown intruder.” John freezes mid-chew, staring up at the screen. “There were signs of a break-in, and his personal safe was ransacked, but so far, no clear suspects have arisen. Rebecca Russell is at the scene.”

           The picture changes to a familiar, glass building, surrounded by police cars and crime scene tape and swarming with journalists and officers of the law.

           “Thanks, Mark,” Ms Russell is saying, standing across the road from the chain-link gate of the service entrance. “It seems that there were at least two assailants in the robbery-murder late last night. Security at Appledore Tower behind me is notoriously strict, but the suspects managed to infiltrate the building as well as Mr Milverton’s private office. They attacked a number of the guards on their way to the thirtieth floor, who are still giving their statements to the police. What we _have_ managed to find out, is that, after the murder of Mr Milverton, the alarm was quickly raised, and through the combined efforts of the private security and the police, the suspects were almost caught a number of times before making their escape. One of them, we’re told, came through the service entrance you can see behind me, climbing over the fence and heading north. Last night’s rain is making tracking the criminals a difficult job, but the authorities are confident that evidence from the crime scene and statements from the guards who were assaulted by the culprits will make tracking them down an easy job.”

           John stares at the screen, and at the journalist’s casual remarks about ‘culprits’ and ‘suspects’ and ‘criminals’; at her gesturing over her shoulder at the very fence over which he’d scrambled in his less-than-furtive escape. “That is just… surreal,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head and turning back to his breakfast. He’s barely taken two bites of toast before there’s a shrill beep from the desk: Sherlock’s got a text.

           John glances at the unconscious detective, and sets aside his plate with a sigh, pushing himself to his feet to check the phone.

 

_Robbery/murder on Hampstead Road last night. You might know him – Charles Milverton. Interested?_

_Lestrade_

 

           John casts his eye over Sherlock’s sleeping form, curled on his side under the blanket. “Sherlock,” he calls, keeping his voice low. There’s no response. “Sherlock.” With a frustrated roll of his eyes, John rounds the coffee table and shakes at the detective’s shoulder. _“Sherlock.”_

            He groans and gives a half-hearted kind of wriggle, as if to throw off John’s hand; it achieves nothing.

            “Lestrade’s asking about Milverton,” says John, rolling Sherlock onto his back. The detective peers up at him through his eyelashes, frowning intensely.

            “Tell him to come around,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse from sleep. John glances at his throat and resolves not to leave him alone for too long. “I want to find out what he knows, anyway.”

            With a small huffing, snuffling noise, Sherlock pulls his arm out of John’s grip and turns back on his side, curling up tighter and burying his face in the cushions. John shakes his head, and goes back to his chair, already composing a response on Sherlock’s phone.

 

_John here. Sherlock says to come around, he might be able to help._

            The reply comes within a minute, as John finishes up the cold remains of his toast, informing him that Lestrade will be over at half past eight. John clears away his plate (or, rather, drops it in the sink with the intention of forgetting about it), and settles into his chair to write up some notes about the case – although he doubts he’ll be making a blog post about it anytime soon, if ever. He pecks at the keyboard for twenty minutes or so before saving the document and shutting the laptop, making his way to the coiled pile of limbs on the couch. He leans over Sherlock, pursing his lips and preparing for a sulky and uncooperative consulting detective.

            “I’m already awake,” Sherlock mumbles as John’s hand falls on his shoulder. The doctor stiffens momentarily, then sighs, dropping his head.

            “How long?”

            Sherlock cracks open one eye and looks up at John, barely turning his head. “Since you got to the part where you convinced me to bring you along.”

            John moves his hand to lean against the back of the sofa and raises a sardonic brow. “Because you took so much convincing,” he deadpans.

            Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he says in lieu of a reply.

            John sighs. “How’d you know?”

            Sherlock shrugs with one shoulder. “Your smile said it all,” he says casually. “Disbelief, resignation, amusement, a hint of triumph – it was all there, and judging by the time and your incredibly slow typing, you can’t have gotten much further than the plans.”

            “You saw me smile?” John frowns

            “I _heard_ you smile,” Sherlock corrects, both eyes now blearily open.

            “You _heard_ my facial expressions.”

            “You’re not exactly subtle about them,” Sherlock counters, amused. “You have a very unique way of exhaling when you make those particular kinds of expressions; it’s what woke me up. I’d recognise it anywhere.”

            “D’you make it a habit to memorise my smiles?” John quips. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

            “Sometimes,” he answers enigmatically. John snorts, shaking his head, and pushes off from the sofa.

            “Lestrade’ll be here soon,” he throws over his shoulder as he crosses the room. “You should probably get up.”

            While John switches off the telly and moves his laptop to the desk to let it charge, Sherlock sits up with a muffled groan, setting his feet on the floor and scrubbing his fingers through his hair and over his eyes. He rests his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees and watches John putter about the living room, tossing newspapers into convenient piles and coming to a halt in the middle of the rug, looking absently about him.

            “Right,” he sighs. “I’m going to change –”

            “I notice you didn’t write about the concert,” Sherlock interrupts from the sofa, his voice flat and apparently purposeless. John meets his eye.

            “Yeah,” he says, as if to ask _‘what about it?’_ “Figured you’d rather that stay between us.”

            _“You_ were the one who threatened my violin should it get back to the Yard,” Sherlock smirks. John heads for the stairs, unsmiling.

            “Not what I was talking about,” he calls as he goes.


	14. Chapter 14

            Lestrade arrives just as John comes back downstairs, properly dressed this time. They meet on the stairs and file into the living room.

            “Sherlock,” says Lestrade in greeting. From his armchair, still clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement. His neck is spotless.

            “Have you eaten?” asks John.

            “I’d like some tea,” Sherlock replies.

            “Well, feel free to make some.” John drops into the chair across from him and looks up as Lestrade comes to stand by him, across from the mantel, watching Sherlock.

            “Think you might like this one,” he begins. Sherlock levels him with an unimpressed glare. “You’ve heard of Charles Milverton?”

            “The blackmailer,” says Sherlock.

            “The _magazine editor,”_ Lestrade replies with a scowl. “We’ve never been able to get enough evidence to warrant an investigation. The bastard’s notorious.”

            _“And?”_ Sherlock insists, sounding bored out of his skull.

            _“And,”_ says Lestrade, with a curious amount of patience, “he was killed last night. Shot five times in the chest, and four in the face.”

            John makes a noise halfway between a contemplative hum and a chuckle. “Sounds like someone held a grudge.”

            “He’s a professional blackmailer, John,” says Sherlock, voice dripping with condescension. “He’s got more enemies than you’ve got ex-girlfriends.”

            John opens his mouth to argue, but Lestrade cuts him off.

            “It’s more than that,” he says. Sherlock looks up at him, intrigue beginning to settle in his eyes.

            “More?”

            Lestrade nods, a hint of amusement in his face. “He was robbed, too,” he says. “His safe shot open, the contents burned; his computer’s been wiped, and no digital backups have been found. The break-in was good – managed to get all the way into his private office before the alarm was raised, and only then by the gunshots.”

            “What was Milverton doing in his office so late at night?” Sherlock asks.

            Lestrade’s eyebrows jump just slightly. “How’d you know it was late?”

            Sherlock sends his most patronising glance at the DI. “Obviously it happened late last night, or either I would’ve heard about it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

            “Right, of course.” Lestrade nods, but there’s something in the movement that strikes John as indulgent. “The guards had been told to expect him at midnight, so there was no one watching the top floor.”

            “Were they given a reason?” asks Sherlock, all business now.

            “Nope,” says Lestrade. “Just instructions to ignore him and anything that happened while he was there. Obviously he was doing something with his little side business.”

            “Obviously,” Sherlock repeats. “What do you know about the murderer?”

            Lestrade sighs. “That’s the problem,” he says. “By all rights, we should’ve found them by now, or at least have _some_ idea. We have descriptions from seven different guards who were attacked by the intruders.”

            “Intruders?” Sherlock looks up. “Plural?”

            “Yep,” Lestrade nods. “Two of them. Caucasian males, one about six foot, dark-haired, skinny. The other they got a better look at, did most of the fighting – short, bit stocky, stern kind of face; blonde-ish hair, cut short. Ten to one we find him.”

           Sherlock snorts cynically. _“Please,”_ he drawls. “You’ll need more than a vague description to catch them. You could be describing John, for God’s sake!” he adds with a wave of his hand at the chair across from him. Lestrade follows the gesture, looking at John and meeting his innocent smile with impassivity.

           “True,” he says flatly. “I could be describing John, couldn’t I?”

           With another short huff of laughter, Sherlock dismisses the issue entirely. “Anything else? Clothing, mannerisms, voices, _names?”_

           “Apparently they were all dressed up for the opera or something,” says Lestrade, turning back to Sherlock. “The tall one was in tails, the other in a bloody _white jacket,_ like some kind of James Bond stunt.”

           Sherlock presses his fingertips together in front of his mouth, his eyes narrowing. “Interesting…” he breathes. “Anything else?”

           “They had some kind of case with them, like an instrument,” Lestrade says with a frown, “and at least one of them was armed. They shot out two security cameras then disabled the rest, _somehow_ managed to make it all the way to Milverton’s office unnoticed, then shot a light, the safe and the man himself. Judging by the time they attacked the guards at the Security Desk, they made it upstairs and waited for Milverton to arrive, had a bit of a chat – then shot him.”

            “Any fingerprints?” asks Sherlock. “DNA? Footprints? Ballistics?”

            “That’s where things get interesting,” says Lestrade, with just a hint of a smile. “No traces left anywhere in the building, and the rain from last night got rid of any outside evidence we might have used. But the ballistics – they’re odd.”

            “Odd?” Sherlock repeats. “How?”

            “The bullets in Milverton don’t match any of the others in the building,” says Lestrade, as if he knows this will hook them.

            “So they had two guns,” Sherlock shrugs. “Boring.”

            “None of guards were shot, but anyone who got in the intruders’ way was knocked out,” Lestrade continues, unfazed. “And apparently very efficiently.”

            “Avoiding collateral damage,” Sherlock concludes. “They were only there for Milverton, indicates a moral objective. And clearly they had some kind of military or martial training, to be able to _efficiently_ dispatch seven trained security guards.”

            “The bullets in the safe, though,” says the inspector with a tilt of his head – “they don’t match anything in our records.”

            Sherlock remains impassive, but, behind Lestrade, John can’t help but look up, surprised, and frown at the back of the DI’s head.

            “But,” Lestrade continues, contemplative – “they did look… familiar.”

            “Familiar,” Sherlock parrots, levelling him with another condescending glare. “Really. The ballistics looked _familiar._ God, you _have_ been on the force too long.”

            To John’s surprise, Lestrade’s only reaction is to dismiss the insult with a short shrug. “Guess they’re probably just similar to one of our more memorable cases.”

            Silence descends, in which Sherlock stares absently ahead of him, Lestrade watches him for a response, and, behind him, John dearly wishes he had a cup of tea or something with which to busy his hands. He can think of at least half a dozen times he’s used his gun on a case; there’s no way Lestrade’s telling the truth about the unmatched ballistics.

            John forces himself not to smile too obviously.

            “Well,” Lestrade finally says with a sigh – “I guess you’re not interested then.”

            “No, not really,” Sherlock bites. “As you said, Milverton was notorious. Personally, I’d be more than happy for his killers to go free. I won’t help you find them.”

            Lestrade just shrugs again. “Oh well,” he says. “I’m sure we’ll get them eventually.”

            Sherlock hums non-committally. “I’m sure,” he repeats, sounding unconvinced.

            “Well, I’d better get back to work then,” says Lestrade, turning to go. At the last moment, though, he turns back, a faint smile on his face. “Oh, by the way,” he continues – “I was talking to Gregson earlier.”

            _“You,_ talking to _Gregson?”_ says Sherlock, amused and disbelieving. “And you didn’t get a black eye for your troubles? This _must_ be good.”

            Lestrade throws him a half-hearted glare before continuing. “Yeah, she headed security at some fancy concert last night, for the royal family?”

            “You say that as if we should know what you’re talking about,” says Sherlock flatly.

            “Well, you should.” Lestrade smirks. “You _were_ snogging over champagne in the lobby.”

            John’s horrified gaze whips up to the DI, then lands firmly on Sherlock, morphing into rage. _“You –”_ He tries and fails to control his breathing, leaning forward in his chair and pointing an accusatory finger across the hearth. “You knew, didn’t you? You fucking _knew_ she’d be there!”

            “I promise you, John,” Sherlock replies calmly, “I had absolutely no idea anyone from Scotland Yard would be present.”

            “How could you not know?!” John yells, appalled and fuming. “You knew everything about the concert, you _always_ know what’s going on at the Yard, how could you not know that one, _tiny_ detail?”

            “Well, I’m assuming the news that DI Gregson would be heading a team on such a high-security event would have been a secret of the utmost importance, am I right, Lestrade?”

            “Don’t answer that!” John snaps up at the amused inspector. “Sherlock, in case you haven’t noticed, words like _secret_ and _security_ don’t usually mean very much to you! You knew, you _must_ have known!”

            “I’ll leave you boys to it, then, shall I?” says Lestrade with a smirk, moving to back out of the room.

            “It was for a case,” John blurts at him. Lestrade raises his eyebrows, unbelieving. “Honestly, it was!”

            “Of course,” says Lestrade, sounding entirely unconvinced. “In any case, this is an argument I’d rather not get caught up in, and I’ve got a murder investigation to handle, so – I’ll leave you to it.”

            He disappears down the stairs at the same time as John silently raises half-clenched fists to the ceiling, then deflates, leaning over and burying his face in his hands.

            “I am never getting a date again,” he mutters. _“Ever.”_

            “Just because Gregson saw us kissing –” Sherlock starts, reaching for his phone on the desk behind him.

            “No, Sherlock, it was bad enough before,” says John, looking up from his hands. “And it’s not like Lestrade’s going to keep that a secret.”

            “As if Gregson did in the first place.”

            “Oh _God…”_ John’s shoulders slump, and he grinds the heels of his palms into his forehead. “Where’s your violin?” he snarls half-heartedly. “I’m not just going to take it – I’m going to _destroy_ it.”

            Sherlock smirks, but makes no reply, tapping absently at his phone. A long moment passes, in which John sighs into his hands and gives up on ever finding a girlfriend. He leans one elbow on the arm of his chair and props up his chin, glancing across at the silent detective.

            “He knows,” he says quietly. “You realise that, right?”

            “Obviously,” Sherlock replies, his voice and face revealing nothing. John sighs again, and pushes himself to his feet, wincing over his ribs.

            “It’s probably not a good sign that he can recognise my gun,” he says, shuffling into the kitchen.

            “Not for your chances if you ever decide to go on a crime spree,” says Sherlock from the living room, looking up. “But at least now he knows when to give up being suspicious of us and just stop investigating.”

            John chuckles as he fills the kettle and Sherlock smiles, tucking his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown and jumping to his feet to stride across the room.

           “Let me.” He reaches up for the last clean mug, then casts about the kitchen for a moment before grabbing one of the assortment of dirty cups on the bench and washing it out.

            “Oh, and take that makeup off your neck,” says John as he gets out two teabags. “I don’t even want to know how you got that good, but I need to monitor the bruising.”

 

 

            They’ve just sat down to lunch in the living room when Sherlock suddenly stiffens, his eyes snapping up from his food and widening in euphoric realisation.

            _“Oh!”_ he breathes, dropping his chopsticks and shoving his chair backwards, leaping across the room to grab his laptop from the coffee table. Having only managed to pry him from the keys about ten minutes ago, John sighs and takes a mournful bite of leftover Chinese, resigning himself to a lonely lunch. Sherlock plunks the computer down on the table and taps away, ignoring both food and flatmate in his quest for information.

            A minute later, Sherlock sits back and looks at the screen with a satisfied grin on his face. Leaning forward again, he turns the laptop around for John to see, and attacks his noodle salad with renewed gusto.

            There are half a dozen tabs open on his browser, each containing a different news article from the last four months. They’re full of scandals – affairs and clandestine meetings, and accusations of everything from barrenness to psychopathy – all regarding a certain CEO of successive, lucrative companies, a businesswoman whose name John recognises with a hint of bitterness. The last article, dated two weeks earlier, expresses rumours of an imminent divorce between the woman and her husband, and contains a candid photograph of the two of them getting into a luxurious-looking car.

            Even through the blur and pixellation, John immediately recognises the woman. There’s no mistaking the neat black hair, the hard eyes, or the proud curve of her jaw. She wears a figure-hugging skirt suit with casual dignity, and looks as if she were born in stiletto heels. But though her eyes are dark and impassive, there’s something in the expression she throws over the roof of the car that is horrified and concerned. She looks at her husband as if he is getting into some other vehicle that will take him far away, rather than ducking in to settle beside her. The caption says that the photo is one of few ever taken of the woman, and John wonders whether her subtle distraction has something to do with that.

            He glances up at Sherlock over the lid of the laptop, a thousand questions lingering on his lips; but the detective just swallows his mouthful of noodles and meets John’s eye, silencing them all. He places one, long finger on his lips, and closes the lid of the laptop, shifting it to one side and turning back to his lunch.

**Author's Note:**

> The first version of this was posted to my LJ in March 2011. After a scathing and insightful critique from [Sigtryggr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sigtryggr) and many more months of work, I posted this (much better) version in August 2012. Beta'd mostly by Sig, and briefly by [mintschnapps](http://mintschnapps.livejournal.com). Many thanks to them both.


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